Dark Knight Moves
by Leaper
Summary: AU, fusion with Batman. "We conducted our courtship on rooftops and fire escapes. A strange flirtation, a hide and seek, a game of cat and mouse..." A Dark Knight, a criminal, and their intertwining paths.
1. Double Lives

**AN: This thing is... weird. Insane. I got this idea - a flash, really - while pondering S2 of "The Joker Blogs," and the scenes and casting just kept coming, and it just... wouldn't... leave. So I pounded it out in an hour and a half.**

**I'm not sure I'm ever going to do anything more with this (especially since I don't see how to cast some major roles from the limited Glee characters there are - Batman has a BIG supporting cast), but not tagging it Complete yet... juuuust in case.**

"Is the defendant ready to hear the verdict?"

The rough-hewn voice echoed in Batman's pounding skull, even as the room inched towards brightness in his rapidly returning consciousness. Already his fingers and muscles were working at the tight bonds tying him to the heavy metal chair he sat in, but he knew he probably didn't have that kind of time. He had to buy it.

The first thing that came into focus was the gun, its barrel pointed directly at his forehead. Then the sneering man holding it. Actually, just _half_ his face was sneering, a rictus of teeth surrounded in red, scarred flesh. The other half was whole, but all the more terrifying for the familiarity, for the cold neutral gaze that held his. A sharp metallic _ting_ rang out each time the free hand flipped the heavy silver dollar into the air.

His cowl was still on; apparently, that was being reserved for after sentencing. Batman tried to find his voice, but his head was still ringing.

"The evidence against you is overwhelming," Two-Face continued casually. "I'd normally suggest a plea deal, but... I won't be accepting any of those today."

Finally, Batman's breath caught in his throat enough to form words. "Blaine..."

Two-Face's scarred visage twisted in rage, and he swung the gun viciously, sending Batman's head snapping back with a dull crack. "Order in the court! The defendant will refrain from further outbursts!" He shook for a bare moment, regaining his calm; for a moment, he seemed once more the dapper District Attorney, standing behind the prosecutor's table, or the podium at one of his political rallies. _I believe in Blaine Anderson._ And Batman did; for all that had happened, God help him, he still did.

"Blaine..." For a moment, he thought about it. He thought of returning his voice to his normal register and saying, "it's me. Your friend. Don't you remember? I want to help you." But even in his perilous position, he knew it was too much of a risk. Instead, he said, still in the low gravelly voice he used in this persona, "I know you. This isn't you, and deep down, you know it. We can get through this, if you'll just..."

"Shut up!" Two-Face screeched, his control cracking once more. Again, this time with even more visible effort, he calmed down. He regarded the coin in his hand, turning it over and over. Scarred, whole, scarred, whole. "The American justice system... It's imperfect. Flawed. But it's what separates us from the animals. One of its greatest qualities is its binary nature. Either you're guilty..." Scarred. "Or not." Whole. His gaze returned to Batman. "The jury has reached its verdict, Batman."

_No! I'm so close...! _Whether he was thinking about freeing himself, or getting through to Blaine, even he couldn't quite tell. "Blaine, you don't need to..."

"Blaine Anderson is dead! My name is Two-Face!" he shouted, and with a defiant snarl, he flipped the coin into the air. His eyes followed the glimmering disc as it rose, tumbling end over end. His eyes were off Batman, just for a split second. But that was all that was needed.

_Now!_ Batman planted his feet firmly, leaning forward to lift the chair off the floor. Before Two-Face even had time to look back, the heavy chair was swung around, its legs slamming into the ex-attorney's shins.

With a cry of pain, Two-Face doubled over. The chair returned to the floor, one of the legs crushing the loosened gun hand. With another shriek, Two-Face dropped his weapon. Batman simultaneously kicked it away even as his bonds loosened, falling to the floor like a dead serpent.

It was over quickly. Another kick, this time to the jaw, and Two-Face lay still on the floor, the right side of his face - the face of D.A. Blaine Anderson - facing upwards, calm and unconscious. Beside him lay the coin, its pitted and scarred face almost mocking.

Batman regarded his old friend for a moment, then turned on his radio to call the commissioner and Arkham Asylum. There was no triumph in him, no righteous satisfaction, not even relief. All he felt was a bone-chilling weariness that wouldn't go away.

* * *

By the time he fully came back to himself, he was back at the cave. The arrival of the police, the taking away of Blaine by Arkham, the questions, the slipping away... It was all a vague blur, as though he'd imagined it in some fugue state.

The cold nip of the underground air added to his weariness. He climbed out of the Batmobile and sat at the computer, removing his cowl and rubbing his face. He thought of a young lawyer, full of ambition, but most of all, hope - hope for Gotham, its people, and its future...

A warm fragrance lifted him from his reverie. Somehow, a bowl of chicken soup and a tuna sandwich had materialized in front of him. "Thank you, William," he rumbled without even turning his head.

"Not at all, Master David." William Schuester stood over his employer (but wasn't David Karofsky more than that, after all these years?), his face a study in neutrality, a state which belied the usual tumult of emotion. "I trust things went well?"

As a boy, David had once asked him why he "talked so funny." Back then, William was young himself, training to continue a long family tradition and take over for his father, then the Karofsky family butler. William had replied, "I have to be formal and professional. It's part of my job." David had nodded with wide eyes - wide innocent eyes, free of pain, free of misery, free of grief, free of the heavy burden of responsibility...

"Well? Not really. But I'm alive. Blaine is alive. I suppose that's as good as it gets."

"I hope Arkham is able to help him this time," the butler offered.

David didn't answer that. Instead, he took a huge bite out of his sandwich and switched on a comm link. "Home Base to Oracle."

A portion of the huge screen lit up, revealing a pert blond sitting in a wheelchair in an undisclosed location that any one of dozens of criminals would've slit their mothers' throats to discover - and bomb all to hell. "Oracle here." Her smile vanished at the sight. "Rough night?"

"Blaine's safely back at Arkham. It's some kind of victory."

"David..."

"I'm all right, Quinn. What have you found out about the burglaries?"

"Not much yet. I'm working on it." Quinn paused, squinting a little at her computer monitor, at the man on the other side. "You look like shit."

Dave ignored the observation. "Well, keep investigating. Sooner or later, our cat burglar is going to get sloppy, and I'd rather I be there than a startled shopkeeper or security guard. I don't know what she'd do if she were cornered."

"David, it's okay to mourn. He was my father's friend too, and I'm sure he feels just as awful as you do."

He stopped, the spoon halfway to his mouth. He dropped the utensil back into the bowl, pinching the bridge of his nose, struggling to keep his breathing under control. "Your father's a good man."

Quinn sighed. "Now. There was a time... a long time... when all Russell Fabray cared about was making captain and schmoozing with the mayor." Her gaze intensified; Dave could almost feel it physically through the video link. "It was you," she said softly. "You made him into a good man."

"I can't work with what's not there. Russell just forgot why he became a cop. All I did was remind him."

Quinn smiled a little. "Maybe. Anyway, I'll get back on that video analysis. See you at the gala next week."

"For a little while, at least. Home Base out." Quinn disappeared from the screen, leaving line after line of personal data, police reports, and forensics analyses, dancing letters and numbers that painted a picture of a city in the grip of fear. It stretched from top to bottom, the scroll bar a small dot in the middle of an empty column, and it just... kept... coming.

His face hard and set, Dave started typing and reading, his mind already making plans and connections and conclusions. The soup and sandwich, barely eaten, were forgotten and lukewarm by his side. He didn't even notice William take the tray, or the butler make his way out of the cave and up the stairs. William wanted to believe that it was because of his professionalism as a servant, but he knew in that cold lump in his heart that it wasn't.

The door, hidden by the heirloom grandfather clock, swung open quietly, and shut behind the butler with a soft click. The route to the kitchen passed by the library; the double doors were open, the moon beyond the huge bay windows casting the room in panels of light and shadow. William paused. Then, out of some deep impulse, he entered. He flicked a switch, and the room lit up in a warm glow. His stare went immediately to the portrait over the fireplace. In it was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mustache and goatee, one arm around an equally tall woman with long red hair, the other around a small boy in a black suit, smiling with joy.

William's head bowed. "Master Paul... I'm so sorry. I... I..." The tears threatened, but never came. William Schuester wasn't British, but he believed nevertheless in the stiff upper lip. His grip tightening around the tray in his hands, he turned on his heel and returned to the hall. He switched the light off, plunging the library and portrait into darkness once more.

* * *

It was almost sunrise. Dave could tell, even underground, and even without a clock. It was instinct, the kind he'd been careful to hone through years of training. Besides, the cold weariness in his body had long since turned into actual weariness. Stretching, he made his way out of the cave and into his bedroom.

_There's one good thing about all this worthless wealth and privilege,_ he thought. _I don't have anywhere to be today._ The thought usually cheered him, but this time...

He dropped into his bed, sleep already overtaking him before his head hit the pillow. Even as he slipped into unconsciousness, he prayed to a God he no longer really believed in that he wouldn't dream of Blaine, of bats, of pearls bouncing off pavement with a dozen tiny pings.

His prayers were in vain.

* * *

At that moment, a penthouse in downtown Gotham was receiving its occupant - oddly enough, through its balcony. The lithe figure swung itself over the railing and glided inside. A cat, once a starving stray, pattered forward and wove its body around its owner's ankles. Said owner gave the cat a small scritch behind the ears and an affectionate "Glad to see you too, Brian."

Several items were tossed onto a neatly made queen-size bed. First, a small leather satchel. Then, a custom-made belt, with attached pouches and tools. A leather skullcap, to keep hair out of the eyes (and out of the hands of crime scene investigators), with two small ear-like nubs that could pick up any one of a dozen police radio bands. A pair of gloves, thick enough to protect against broken glass, yet sheer enough to keep out of the way of dexterous fingers.

One sweep of the hand caught up a remote control, and the TV flicked on. Gotham This Morning was just starting, and this viewer, at least, was quite pleased to see what the top story was.

"... fifth robbery in as many weeks, with no suspects and few leads." The cat burglar sat on the edge of the bed, cuddling the brown and black furred Brian, who was nuzzling with a contented mewl. "This video footage is all that exists of the burglar the press has dubbed the Catwoman, for her unusual headwear." The video was black and white, grainy... Yet the curve of the breasts and the sharpness of the "ears" atop the head were unmistakable. "Gotham Police Commissioner Russell Fabray is holding a press conference at 10 am to address public concerns about this crime spree. In other news, rumors of a mysterious vigilante persist in..."

The so-called "Catwoman" shut off the TV with a wry grin. Batman... It was only luck, most likely, that had kept the two from meeting thus far, and "Catwoman" had no illusions that it would last. From all reports, such a meeting wouldn't be... all bad... But "Catwoman" was equally open-eyed to the fact that anything happening between them (even the preferred sensuous "quickie") was unlikely at best, for _many_ reasons.

The burglar's thoughts turned towards more pleasant subjects, like the contents of the satchel nearby... and the media. The stupid, gullible, easily manipulated media. Like a true professional would ever have been so careless as to be caught like that on any security camera. But the burglar had learned long ago that people made certain... assumptions about lithe, curved, graceful bodies. So why not take advantage of them? It was as good a shield, a disguise, as almost any.

Brian wriggled in discomfort as the burglar reached into his shirt and plucked out the falsie bra, tossing it carelessly across the room. _There's irony for you, _he thought, _turning their pig-ignorant heteronormative assumptions against them. _He then opened the satchel with one hand (leaving the other free to stroke Brian's head) and turned it over. A cascade of glittering gems spilled across the satin sheets; he gasped in delight. No matter how many he had, no matter how many he _took_, he never failed to be amazed at such a sight. Not that he cared about value (indeed, he got most of his pleasure from the doing, not the having), but he did care about beauty. And gems were very beautiful indeed.

"After all," Kurt Hummel purred as he turned over the necklaces and bracelets in his hand, "diamonds are a girl's best friend."

**AN: Yes, yes, I know, Quinn would've made an appropriate Harley. But considering the wheelchair, and the fact that she's one of the few girls whose fathers have appeared on-screen, AND that many of the others' personalities just wouldn't have fit that well, I thought I had to make the sacrifice. I think it's funnier to imagine Brittany in Harley's role anyway...**


	2. Kiss From a Rose

**AN: Okay, I must be nucking futs, because I _did_ decide to continue this; I was just getting too many other ideas. I'm still not sure about a few bits of future casting, so I'll just go with what I do have for now. I'd love more reaction, especially from the comic fans, so please spread the word. :) (Though I do know I have to be writing this for myself, not for reviews and eyeballs, and I am - I think I'll go nuts if I don't put down these ideas _somehow_...)**

**Hope the quality is keeping up for those of you who are reading this...  
**

She screamed. It was a piercing, horrified sound that almost seemed to go through Batman's skull.

"Stop! Stop it! You fucking _murderer_!"

Batman ignored her as the vines dropped to his feet, brown and decaying. The large, toothed bulb that had been biting his arm (almost getting through the Kevlar-based armor) withered, collapsing in on itself like a rotting peach. The poison was starting to dissipate, but Batman kept the gas mask on; there was more than a little herbicide to worry about breathing in.

Lifting his arm towards the sky, he fired his grappling hook, which attached itself firmly to one of the girders above. His thumb flicked a switch, and the hook began reeling itself in, pulling him upwards. In seconds, he was on the catwalk above, confronting her directly.

She was a shapely woman, her chest and pelvis wrapped tightly in layer upon layer of jade colored silk (no plant-derived cloth for her - not ever). Her long black hair was streaked with the occasional stripe of green, crowned with a circlet of woven branches, her bare feet smooth and supple, despite walking everywhere without shoes. She appeared to be a perfectly normal, if stunningly attractive, young woman, except for two features: her intensely emerald eyes, an unusual color for a person of her apparent racial heritage, and her lips, plump and almost bloody red, despite neither a surgeon nor lipstick ever touching them. These lips were now twisted with rage, these eyes blazing with hatred.

"It's over, Dr. Lopez," he said quietly.

"Fuck you, meatbag!" she shrieked. "Don't use that name with me again unless you want your appendix yanked out through your asshole!" Batman winced, the words reminding him much too much of his confrontation with Blaine Anderson.

"Where are the hostages?"

"You want them? Look for them yourself! They deserve whatever they get for raping this planet!" She crossed her arms defiantly, not even trembling as Batman approached her. "Fucking so-called 'entrepreneurs' and 'pillars of the community.' I'll be glad when every single one of you humans is in the ground, finally doing something useful: fertilizing the plants!"

"You're human too." He was closer now; he could reach out and just barely brush the tip of her nose.

"Fuck you!" She didn't back away, not even a step.

"This isn't the way..."

"Well, guess what, Frankenbat? I've tried all the other ways. Dozens of people have tried all the other ways. This is the only one left. No one listens. No one cares." She cocked her head, her enraged glare giving way to a small smile. "But you care, don't you? Maybe not about this planet... But about me."

He didn't answer her.

"Yeah..." Her smile grew wider, her voice lower, more sensuous. "You actually don't want me to get hurt, do you?" Now she was the one closing the gap between them, her bare feet practically gliding over the cold metal of the catwalk. "You've always been soft-hearted that way, haven't you?" Batman could feel his heart pounding despite himself as her body pressed against his. "It's strange... I can't seem to charm you the way I can most men. Are you really that strong-willed? Or...?" She reached up, slipping the gas mask off his face, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her breath tickled his chin. "All the times we've... met, and I've never even given you a kiss..."

It felt like he was drowning in the greenness of her eyes, wide and inviting.

Her lips quirked as she puckered, gently pulling his face towards hers. She didn't hear the soft hiss, but half a second later, her eyes widened, the beauty of their vibrant color ironically even greater in her surprise. "Oh," she whispered. Then the color, the _green_, vanished beneath her closing eyelids, and she slumped backwards into his arms.

Batman carefully lowered her to the floor, slipping the sedative back into his belt. He shook his head; that shouldn't have gotten so far, that shouldn't have been needed. But it seemed that her hold on men, even on one like him, was getting stronger each time they met. He made a mental note to impress this fact on Arkham's administration.

He straightened, rising to his full height. The night wasn't over; he still had hostages to locate, probably treat. But at least the bulk of the insanity was over.

Then again, there was always the next night. And the next.

* * *

David Karofsky was, of course, fashionably late to his own party. He simply breezed into the room, murmuring apologies. "Sometimes those little naps of mine get away from me. Sorry about that."

The Karofsky Foundation's annual charity gala was in full swing. The dance floor was crowded with tuxedos and designer gowns, the tables filled with _fois gras_ and champagne flowing freely. It wasn't often that Gotham's elite was able to spend thousands of dollars a plate on a cause more worthwhile than putting a hand puppet into a Senate seat; even this even was mostly a means to feel good about moral failings, deflect negative publicity about falling wages and benefits, or just get on the front page of the Gazette as a "philanthropist." Still, David thought, money is money, and the causes it would go to didn't care about the whys.

But he hated this. He hated the schmoozing and the shallowness and the sheer fucking _irrelevance_ of it all. He wasn't needed here; he was needed out there, amongst junkies and dirty alleys and other things that the people in this room paid a lot of cash to not have to see or even think about. But he'd learned long ago that he couldn't avoid things like this. "You are not Batman," William once said to him in a far blunter voice than he'd ever heard from the butler before. "You are David Karofsky, and he, in my humble opinion, is a far better person. And as David Karofsky, you have a responsibility to yourself and to Gotham that far outstrips putting on a suit and punching a mugger." David had sighed and grumbled, but in the end, how could he refuse William? He never could, not even as a willful kid.

He picked his way amongst the tables, grinning and greeting and pointing to men and women he frankly didn't give much of a damn about. "Dean! Good to see you! Isla, you look stunning tonight! Hey, Vic, glad you could make it!" He turned, and his smile turned into an actual genuine expression of pleasure. "Commissioner! Chief Flanagan! You got my tickets!"

Police Commissioner Russell Fabray and Chief of Police Rory Flanagan rose from their table simultaneously. The commissioner's graying blond hair was slicked back, shining in the overhead lights. "It was our pleasure," he said, firmly shaking David's hand.

"It was very kind of ye to invite us," the baby-faced chief added as he offered his own handshake, his lilting brogue not keeping him from being heard over the blaring dance music. "I don't mind telling ye, I don't think we have quite the salary for these kinds of events."

"Which is a shame, as far as I'm concerned. Our public servants deserve a lot better."

"Please repeat that to the mayor the next time you see him," Fabray chuckled. He paused for a moment, smiling as a young woman in a wheelchair rolled towards them. "Oh, there you are, honey! David, you remember my daughter Quinn?"

David gave an easy smile. "Of course." He leaned down and picked up one of her hands, kissing its back. "_Enchante._ Very good to see you again, Miss Fabray."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Same here," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "So where's your latest boy toy?" She was used to the insults by now; David had insisted on them to separate the two in the minds of the public. She knew he'd never been fully comfortable allowing her in his world to begin with, but ever since the shooting... It was only after a lot of time and repeated reminders that she had been targeted as the Commissioner's daughter, not as his associate, that David let her continue to help him. And even then, this was one of the conditions he refused to budge on.

"Quinn..." the commissioner murmured.

"Oh, he's around here somewhere..." David replied airily. "Ah, there! Honey, come here!" He waved over a tall, handsome man with tightly curled-shoulder length hair. He had the barest facial fuzz (which made him look more charming than sloppy) and skin tanned by careful hours under a lamp. David took the man's hand at his approach. "This is... ah..." He frowned, snapping his fingers as he pretended to think. "Eduardo!"

"Armando," the man replied in a smooth European accent. His complete lack of apparent offense at the flub told David all he needed to know about Armando's motives: a few weeks in Gotham paid for by one of the richest men in the world. But then, that was exactly why David picked him up. His role was cheap at twice the price.

David never had a problem being openly homosexual. Considering all the other, more important things he was hiding, he could never bring himself to care much about that particular fact. Besides, he knew full well that a lot of the public still hung onto a lot of stereotypes about gay men - stereotypes that were annoying, but inordinately useful in creating an image that would cloak the important secrets, breaking any possible mental connection between his worlds, drawing attention away from his build and any slips in behavior. The gold diggers were an unfortunate but necessary side effect.

"Right." David laughed carelessly, wondering if only his ears could hear its hollowness. "We met a few months ago in Paris..."

"Brussels."

"Right. Anyway, he was in the area, so I told him to stop on by Gotham. He was going to stay at the Hilton, but come on! With all those nasty bedbugs and stains all over the place? I told him, you're staying at the Chatsworth and that's that! Penthouse suite and everything!" Armando had tried to angle for the mansion, but that, of course, had been out of the question. It didn't take much to satisfy him, though - just the ritziest hotel in the city.

"David is most generous," Armando said smoothly. A leer passed over his face as he regarded David, which made David's stomach turn, but he kept up the false smile. He was very good at that.

David grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and put it to his lips. As he did, his gaze wandered, as it was wont to do, looking for signs of trouble, analyzing escape and evacuation routes. It was only when his eyes passed the bar in the southwest corner of the room that they stopped dead.

A slender brown haired man in a tuxedo (one David immediately recognized as coming from a top designer - a brand new style) was leaning against the bar, sipping at his own glass of champagne and regarding the crowd in a way much like David was. Even from this distance, he could see the other man's sparkling blue eyes, the creaminess of his smooth skin, the slight purse of his lips.

Then the other man's head turned slightly, towards David. Their eyes locked.

David tore his gaze away, his heart pounding for some reason he couldn't fully fathom. He turned back to the somewhat curious looking commissioner and chief, forcing his smile to return. "If you'll excuse me, folks, I have the urge to dance." Before he could change his mind, he quickly grabbed Armando's hand. "Come on, Eduardo."

"Armando." He gave the others a small nod before David pulled him onto the dance floor.

David's mind was whirling. He had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder, back towards the bar. Why was he being like this? He faced down homicidal lunatics and gun-toting thugs practically every night, and a mere _glance_ at this man sent him into a minor panic? Why?

The fact that he had no answer was the most terrifying part of all.

* * *

Quinn frowned.

"Something the matter?" her father asked with mild concern.

There was a lot, in fact, the matter. David's reaction just then was quite uncharacteristic. Perhaps she'd been dealing with him too long, with the cowl and the voice and the scowls. All that time, she thought she believed in one thing: that he was unshakable. Of course, that stolidity in times of stress had come at terrible cost, and she still exhausted herself trying to insert a lever into the titanium safe that was his emotions, no matter how futile she knew it was. To see him so... _feeling_, just by a glance (where? she wasn't able to see what he was staring at - damn chair)... It cracked every mental image she had of David. It chilled her to the bone.

"Nothing," she finally said to her father. She was somewhat sad to find how much better she was at this "lying to the face of a man she loved" business than she was when this all began. "It's just that... I can't believe someone like him is some kind of patron saint for Gotham. I just wish he'd take life more seriously." Quinn almost laughed out loud even as the absurd words escaped her lips; how many times had she, subtly or otherwise, pleaded with David to do the exact opposite?

"Don't be so hard on him, Quinn," Commissioner Fabray replied. "I'm sure his life has a lot of responsibilities neither you or I can even imagine. Besides, David's a good man. He's a lot stronger than you think."

Quinn looked up at him, startled; there was that errant thought again: _does he know?_ Even when he was an arrogant, controlling, overbearing blowhard, he was still a damn good cop. And as one of Batman's oldest confidants... perhaps even _friends_... Could he possibly...?

She knew she could never ask. All she could do was watch as her father casually sipped his champagne.

* * *

In his private moments, Kurt laughed a lot at the carelessness of the rich. For all their material wealth, and concerns about keeping it, they could be stunningly sloppy, as though they thought, by very dint of their privilege, that they were untouchable.

Take this shindig, for instance. All he needed to get in was a good tux and a Photoshopped invitation. Not that he knew what the real invitations looked like, but what did that matter? A little charm, a little song and dance, a little waving around of the invitation, and the security guard utterly forgot that he never had a good look at the thing, allowing Kurt access with a smile and a "have a good time, sir."

And indeed, he was having quite a good time, as his eyes scanned the sparklies that passed by. _Four point two carats, marquise cut... Very nice... Hmm, mediocre pearls at best, but still worth five figures easy... Tsk, tsk, cubic zirconium, and not even very convincing... I guess you or your husband had a few gambling debts, didn't you, dearie?_ He was on his second glass of champagne (and no more; he had to keep his wits about him, after all) when his eyes met _his._

_Well, well, David Karofsky, Gotham's favorite son._ He'd seen the man on magazine covers and in gossip rags, of course, but this was the first time he'd ever seen him in person, and _my_, real life was even better. He was tall and handsome, though his tuxedo did _nothing_ for the fine body that Kurt could tell was underneath. For a moment, just a moment, Kurt admired the view, thinking nothing of the famed manor in which he lived, of the treasures that undoubtedly lay within.

The spell was broken when Karofsky turned and pulled the blandly good-looking slug next to him onto the dance floor. Kurt shook his head in chagrin; what the hell was that about? Look at him, indulging in a crush like some schoolgirl. _Distractions like that can get you killed, Hummel, _he chided himself.

Nevertheless, perhaps this was a sign; it wouldn't do to be in Gotham and not at least try to cultivate the acquaintance of David Karofsky. If nothing else, he could be the key to the homes of his fellow rich and famous. And with Karofsky's reputation... well, the way into his confidence was clear.

He charged towards the dance floor, putting his empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter without breaking his stride. Kurt straightened his bow tie and smoothed his hair flat as he wormed his way into the knot of dancers, fighting the urge to pick pockets (not the most dignified or profitable occupation, but these idiots just made it _so_ easy and tempting!), until he saw them: Karofsky and Mr. Gigolo, swaying in each others arms.

Straightening his back, Kurt strode directly over to them, tapping Mr. Gigolo's shoulder. "Excuse me, may I cut in?" Without waiting for a response, he broke their hold, taking Karofsky into his arms and sweeping him away. Mr. Gigolo was so startled by the sudden intrusion that he only watched, gaping like a fish, as the two vanished into the crowd.

For his part, Karofsky didn't seem at all confused or startled, much to Kurt's grudging admiration. His lips quirked into a small smile. "Forward, aren't you?"

"Life is too short to not take what you want." The two danced in silence for a moment. "So you're David Karofsky."

"That's me. I'm afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage, Mister...?"

"Hummel. Kurt Hummel. I just moved here from Chicago."

"Ah. So how are you enjoying Gotham so far?"

"It's..." _Prime pluckings, thank you very much. _"Fascinating. Such a vibrant place."

Karofsky nodded. "It is. It's a shame with everything that goes on that more people don't realize it."

"But that's what events like this are for, aren't they?"

Karofsky's face seemed to light up. "Yes! I'm glad you understand. A lot of people don't remember how Gotham used to be, how it was when I was a boy. I want those days to come back. I want people to feel safe on the streets, to have everything they need to lead peaceful lives. I'm doing everything I can to make that happen." Kurt was startled to see how serious Karofsky's face had become during this speech. It was as though the playboy was slowly slipping away, revealing... something else? Karofsky seemed equally startled; the easy, lazy grin came back so quickly that Kurt almost thought that it was a deliberate front. "And getting all the champagne I can drink isn't bad either." He paused. "So what about you? What do you do?"

"Interior design. I'm hoping to form my own agency one of these days." After all, having a client list full of wealthy and powerful names would be quite advantageous. He'd never rob those people directly - that would be stupid - but having such innocent access to their friends and associates would be priceless.

"I'm sure you're good."

"I am. Maybe I can decorate your interiors one of these days." Kurt flushed as soon as he finished the sentence. _Oh my God. Am I flirting? I cannot be fucking flirting. This is humiliating! _To be fair, he had flirted many times before, but it was always business. So was this, but there was actual _sincerity_ creeping into it... Kurt shuddered inwardly. Sincerity... If there was anything that was fatal in his line of work, it was _that_.

Karofsky chuckled. "Maybe I should take you up on that sometime. I'm sure you lay good carpet." Kurt snorted; it was lucky Karofsky was rich, because with that kind of "wit," he'd never get anywhere.

The song ended; he and Karofsky reluctantly (well, on his part, definitely _not_ on Kurt's) parted, politely applauding the band with the rest of the crowd. And oh, there's Mr. Gigolo, finally trying to get his meal ticket back. This was obviously Kurt's cue to depart; after all, one of his most long standing mottoes was "always leave them wanting more."

Kurt stepped forward and laid a gentle kiss on Karofsky's cheek. He pulled forward, rubbing his face against the billionaire's, until his lips were millimeters from Karofsky's right ear. "I live in Gotham Towers. Penthouse suite. Look me up sometime."

With that, Kurt strode away confidently. He didn't have to turn around to know that Karofsky was staring after him; he could _feel_ the gaze on the back of his head.

_Sorry, Mr. Gigolo,_ he thought. _Too bad you had to compete with a professional._

Kurt had a good feeling about this. Tonight, he felt in his bones, was an investment that would turn very profitable indeed.


	3. Birds of a Feather

**AN: Thanks to those of you who've stuck by this so far. I could always use more eyes on this thing (to make sure I maintain some modicum of quality), so feel free to rec to those you think interested!**

**Also, apologies in advance for any flaws and errors you find in the crime committed below; I, of course, would know nothing of such things. :) (I'll patch anything egregious when I have the time; I just wanted to get this thing "on paper" ASAP; it's being a little ornery.)**

Lauren Zizes groaned as the last of her enforcers crashed to the floor. "Oh, for... What the fuck am I paying you people for?"

Her office was littered with six unconscious forms, all muscular men in black tights, shirtless except for a tuxedo collar and white cuffs. In the middle of the tangle was a tall, beefy man in an improbable outfit. "We need to talk, Penguin," he growled.

She stiffened, as he knew she would; he'd long ago found that the nickname was a useful and much needed gambit to keep her off-balance. Lauren Zizes had always loved birds. But with her physique, not conforming to the standards of beauty that stared out from magazines and billboards, she was teased constantly by her peers, stuck with the moniker "Penguin," a single word that neatly mocked both interest and body. "Ugly," "loser," and "lesbo" were among the more common taunts, if Oracle's research into the depths of Ducard Academy's yearbooks were any indication.

But if Zizes was ugly, it was because of her soul, not her skin. Her trials served only to hone a personality already cold, ambitious, and ruthless into a knife's edge. With a combination of intelligence, sheer will, and a trail of mysterious "incidents," she became stronger, physically and personally, becoming a mover and shaker in the criminal underworld, yet shielded by layers of fronts and mooks too scared to talk. One of Oracle's more interesting tidbits of information was the fates of many of Zizes' classmates from Ducard - the pretty and popular, the ones who were probably at the forefront of her teenage misery. All were leading lives of desperate, grinding poverty, interrupted only by the occasional ray of hope (a job interview, an investment opportunity, a badly needed day care slot opening), hope that was always cruelly and spectacularly dashed at the last second. The sources of these woes (and the hope) were always varied and nigh untraceable to any one source, but Batman could see the pattern.

The center of the pattern, the "brightest feather in her nest," as she herself might've put it, was the Iceberg Lounge, a jumping joint designed to separate the drunken, idle rich from their pocket money. It was in her private offices at the Iceberg that Batman was stepping over the still bodies of her waiter/bodyguards.

Zizes had, by now, recovered her icy cool, her eyes hard behind her glasses. She propped her feet up on her desk, revealing a shin-length black skirt and sensible shoes that gleamed in the lamp light. She wore a tuxedo shirt, coat, and bow tie, all neatly pressed and obviously carefully tailored to her body. As Batman approached, Zizes calmly took a drag from her cigarette, the holder delicately perched between two of her fingers, and blew out a defiant stream of smoke that curled around her hair, slicked back and tied tightly in a knot on the back of her head.

"I should call the police right now," she snarled. "Have you arrested for assault and trespassing."

She was that _rara avis_ amongst Batman's most consistent headaches: the absolutely sane. She often took advantage of the rampant chaos that his other foes caused to consolidate power for herself, such as taking turf abandoned by the shaken Moroni and Falcone families in recent, turbulent years. Batman sometimes asked himself which was worse: the depths of depravity that insanity could plumb, or the shallower, but calculating cruelty of those who "merely" cared about no one but themselves. He never had an answer.

"I need information," Batman said bluntly. "The kind you and your goons can give me."

Zizes sneered, taking a moment to feed the exotic, brightly plumed, and highly illegal-to-own parrot perched on the back of her office chair. "I don't have _goons_. Unless you're talking about these _idiots_ who're supposed to protect me from wanton thugs like you." She cast a disgusted glare at the unconscious bodies about her. "I'm afraid you're flying blind this time."

"The cat burglar. I want her."

"I'm sure you do. But she has nothing to do with me."

"Nothing happens on the streets without you at least knowing about it, Zizes. The next time you hear even a whisper about her next potential target, I want to know about it."

She raised an imperious eyebrow. "_I_ am a legitimate businesswoman. _You_ are a vigilante with the fashion sense of a comic book crazed six year old. Even if I did associate with criminals, I doubt that your cat burglar would say 'boo' to any of them." She paused, frowning. "I never did like cats to begin with..."

"Maybe she won't talk directly, but she loves high-profile victims, and seems to know when they're particularly vulnerable or have an unusual amount of jewelry. If anyone would have the same information, your... associates would."

She took another drag of her cigarette, exhaling directly into Batman's face; neither flinched. "You don't scare me, Batman. You never have." She smirked at the tension she could see building in his shoulders, his chest. "Oh, come on, you wouldn't hit a _girl_, would you?"

"Don't play the weak female with me, Zizes. It's insulting to us both." His eyes raked her, studying body language, microexpressions, movements that she didn't even realize she was making. "And I wouldn't recommend reaching any further for that umbrella of yours."

Zizes' face twitched, then relaxed once more into her contemptuous sneer. "As I said, self-defense. You know, if you're trying to convince me to play along with your little games, you're doing a fucking lousy job of it."

"Then how about this: you _will_ help me, or when I leave here tonight, I will have a talk with Commissioner Fabray. He will post officers outside this club every night, checking the records of every single person who walks in to make sure they're not a part of your criminal enterprises." Batman leaned forward, resting his knuckles atop the desk; Zizes pushed backwards instinctively. "While they do that, I will do everything in my power to make your... activities in Gotham as uncomfortable as possible. Whatever you do, wherever you go, I will be there. You may not see me, but I swear to you that I'll be there. And if I see you step one toe out of line..." His fists tightened. "Your choice, Penguin. Help me, or become an obstacle. Which will it be?"

Zizes swallowed. "Well..." she began hoarsely, "my club attracts all kinds; I don't discriminate amongst customers. So if I happen to overhear anything - purely innocently, of course - I suppose I could let you know." She frowned. "How _would_ I let you know?"

"Talk to Fabray."

"Right. Is this some kind of... partnership? Because if it is, I can tell you that..."

"I'll be waiting for news." With that, Batman turned and stalked out of the office, quickly vanishing from the room.

At that very moment, at least two of the fallen bodyguards started to recover consciousness, groaning and rubbing their heads. Lauren Zizes leaped to her feet and stomped over to them, kicking one in his side. "Get up, you morons! You're getting your pay docked, all of you! God, you're lucky you're pretty..."

* * *

Commissioner Russell Fabray stood atop the roof of Gotham Police headquarters, looking out at the twinkling lights of the city he'd called home for so many years. The signal shone upon the clouds overhead, a message written in light for everyone to see, to evoke hope or despair. There were times he couldn't believe he moved here to make a _name_ for himself, without a care or a thought of the people he was supposed to be serving. He shivered in the cold night air, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

The first shock had come with the realization of just how corrupt the GCPD was when he first arrived. Sure, he'd always believed in politicking, in making sure the right ears were whispered in and the right egos petted, but outright dealing with criminals, becoming the kind of scum he took an oath to take down, went much too far. For a man who lived for control, feeling the pressure of the Mob, despite refusing their overtures himself, was a new, unbearable experience.

It was the first of many steps along the path of realizing that the world wasn't there to bow to his whims, and that there were other people in it besides him - people worth protecting. It was a path he walked painfully for a long time, but he arrived at his destination the terrible night his infant son was kidnapped. Even now, even knowing that everything turned out all right, he still had waking nightmares thinking about the dizzying number of ways his son could've died, he could've died, or both. If it hadn't been for _him_.

"Russell."

The cop turned abruptly at the rough voice. Of course he hadn't heard _him_ arrive; he never did. "You'll have to teach me how to do that sometime," he chuckled.

"I assume the Penguin is passing along a message?"

Fabray laughed again. "God, sometimes I wonder what you need me for. Yes, she says word is that a juicy new target's come up for the cat burglar. Kane Jewelers is getting the Star of Ceylon necklace on Thursday for cleaning and resetting. It's going to be held overnight in their vault, then picked up the next morning."

"Tight timetable. And Kane security is very good. But she seems to enjoy the challenge. It's likely to be her next target."

"Agreed. Do you want backup?"

"No; I don't want to scare her off. I'll handle it."

Fabray stared at the man he considered (somewhat oddly, he knew) a friend. "Is everything okay?"

Batman blinked; a foreign look came over his face, almost akin to confusion. "Okay?"

"Ever since you caught Anderson..." He cleared his throat. "You had to do it, you know."

"I know."

The night wind picked up, sending Fabray's tie flapping in the chill. "There's something else, though. I don't expect you to tell me what it is, but I hope it works out."

"I..." Fabray didn't know, had no way of knowing, that Batman was thinking of the look on the Commissioner's face, that he too was remembering the past, of what he was like when they first met. Yes, Fabray swaggered and sneered and blustered, but even then, Batman could see the man he could be, the man he very probably once was before ambition took hold. But more than that... Back then, Fabray was, or at least looked, considerably happier. Why not - his life was simple in those days: advance in the ranks, catch a few bad guys now and again to look good, get in the society pages. Now that he actually cared about his job, about his men and women, about his city... There were stress lines etched into his face, and Batman almost thought that the night at the gala was the first time he'd seen the Commissioner smile in ages. Would it have been better for him to be left in blissful ignorance? It probably would've been better for Quinn. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, almost physically shaking his head before he stopped himself. "Thank you."

"You don't have to do it all alone, you know," Fabray said. "I won't ask what happened to those young partners of yours..." He turned, just for the briefest of moments, to switch off the signal. "But maybe they..." He turned back, finding he was speaking to empty air. "Did it to me again. Figures." With a rueful shake of the head, Commissioner Fabray began the trek back to his warm office, back to his work.

* * *

Kurt, of course, had known about the Star of Ceylon for weeks, despite the smothering layers of secrecy Kane had tried to put over it. Confidentiality agreements and NDAs were mere pieces of paper, easily overcome by a little alcohol, freeing information easily caught by judicious choices of watering holes. As it was, if he'd had even a couple days less of lead time, he never would've attempted the job; the research, the scouting, and the planning had strained even his usual generous timetable. He had to admit that Kane took a lot more and better measures than his usual target; he supposed that, being a Gotham business, such caution was a necessity. But there were always holes, and every business was less prepared, less safe, than they thought they were. Kane was no exception.

He knew that his chances of success were inversely proportional to the amount of time he spent in the actual building. Thus, prep work was vital. That meant a few visits to Kane, watching and taking copious notes. He didn't dare step inside, into the range of security cameras, until he knew exactly what he was going to do there; having to go back a second time would undoubtedly raise suspicions. After days of photos, of stalking, of planning, he was confident and ready by Thursday night.

Step one: Cut the building's security system off from the outside world without setting off an alert. Kurt had some understanding of electronics, but not nearly enough to be independent; fortunately, his suppliers knew how to make their products user-friendly, and the system itself was one he'd gone up against many times before. Sometimes Kurt yearned for the romantic days he read about in novels, the days in which all a cat burglar needed was brains, a few tools, and a little luck. The 21st century was all about computers and the Internet and complex gizmos and programs, with crime being no exception. Oh, well, one had to change with the times or die, didn't one?

Step two: Gain access to the building. That was relatively simple, thanks to the skylight (one of Kurt's best weapons was the willingness of businesses to sacrifice security for _beauty_ and _openness_ - great for attracting legitimate customers willing to spend, but great for people like him as well). With the alarms off, getting past even the reinforced glass and steel was child's play by now.

Step three: Get past the guards. That was the easiest part of all, thanks to the little timed gas bomb he'd hidden on his visit inside that day while "using the restroom."

Step four: Open the vault. Some gently prodding questions to an employee over a nightcap had given him a fairly good idea of what he was in for here. Fortunately, no plastic explosive was needed in this case; just one of Kurt's less-than-legitimate gadgets got him access within fifteen minutes.

Step five: Revel for just a moment. As he pried open the drawer, and the Star of Ceylon lay bare in his sight, glittering in the penlight, he took a brief second, as he always did, to admire its dazzling beauty, to enjoy the results of his hard work and planning. This moment was what half of his "job" was all about, and no one could say that Kurt Hummel didn't work damn hard.

Step six: Get rid of the camera footage. That took barely a few minutes, and with the security system isolated, the offsite backups would be worthless.

Step seven: Get out. That was no problem, with the skylight line still in place.

Step eight: Escape and enjoy the spoils.

"Put it back."

It was at this point the plan hit a snag.

Kurt froze, still hunched over his satchel. The rough, almost guttural voice came from behind him. He didn't know for sure what he would find when he turned his head, but he had a pretty good guess. Fortunately, his goggles were still in place; he only had to brush his fingers against his collar to activate the electronic voice changer, turning his high but unmistakably male voice into a pleasing female soprano. Only then did he speak.

"The famous Batman, I presume?"

* * *

Batman's mind was churning, filing the voice away as she rose and turned, comparing it to ones he'd heard before, just in case. No immediate connection came.

Her form-fitting jumpsuit left little to the imagination - practical yet made to be alluring (though how did that make sense, since she obviously didn't want to be seen?). Her body was thin and lithe, her movements as she regarded him confident.

"I said, put it back."

"Aw, but we just got acquainted." She giggled, a rich, high-pitched sound. "I meant the necklace and I, but that's true for you and me as well." She looked him over; he could feel her gaze even behind the tinted goggles. "Mmm, better than I imagined. Those police sketches really don't do you justice."

He took a step forward; she didn't flinch. "I won't tell you again. Put..."

"... it back, I know." She sighed. "Just like the police: so serious. How... dull." Catwoman slipped her satchel over her shoulder; it obviously held the necklace, so the action was definitely not a sign of surrender. "Tell you what: why don't we meet for lunch next Wednesday. We'll have some wine, some pasta... And I can return the necklace then. Oh, it might be short a few gems... Call it a handling fee..."

Batman snorted as he stepped forward. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

Catwoman smiled. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing."

They started running towards each other at the same time. Batman was about to reach out when she took a mighty leap forward. To his shock, she flipped over his head, planting her hands on his shoulders, then pushed off, somersaulting to the ground behind him. He turned just in time to see her jump onto the roof of the next building.

Swearing under his breath, he followed, her mocking laughter ringing through the night. "Oh, this is FUN! I haven't been chased like this since sixth grade!"

She was an acrobat, that was for sure, almost on the level of Harley Quinn. Gymnastics training at the very least. His mind remained cool as he pursued her from rooftop to rooftop. _We're on Parkridge now... She's turning north... Hmm. She doesn't seem to know that she'll run out of level rooftop in two blocks..._ _Did she just not expect to have to escape this way, or...?_ Whatever the reason, his instinct was correct. She stood waiting for him on the roof of the Finger Building, further flight cut off by adjacent skyscrapers and empty lots.

"Stupid of me," she said calmly, examining the fingertips of her gloves casually as she leaned against a wall of the roof's access stairs. "Guess you put me off my game, handsome."

"End of the road, Catwoman. You seem like an intelligent woman. Cut your losses. Now."

She laughed. "Darling, if I were the kind of girl to do that, I wouldn't be in this business to begin with." Then, out of seemingly nowhere, the whip was in her hand. It lashed out, wrapping around his wrist. The sharp yank immediately followed; the surprise allowed it to sweep him off his feet, sending him crashing onto the tar-papered roof. She laughed again, flicking her wrist; the whip snapped upwards, returning to its mistress. He was on his feet at the next moment; the two faced off warily, with Batman making sure to keep his back towards her easy escape routes. He tried to approach, but a sharp crack of the whip sent him back again. Pain wasn't an issue - it never was with him. But she showed considerable skill with the weapon, and if he wasn't careful, she could strangle him before he even had a chance to touch her. "Oh, don't be so afraid. I don't bite. Much."

His mind went over the possibilities: batarang, tear gas, flashbang... All of them seemed like overkill. She definitely wasn't going anywhere; all he had to do was watch and wait for an opening. A quick feint to the right gave it to him; the tip of the whip flashed towards the very spot he'd predicted. Batman dodged in the opposite direction, rolling to Catwoman's feet. Before she was able to react, he rose and grabbed her whip wrist. "Drop it." She did. "Now the Star."

"Strong one, aren't you?" she asked with deadpan calm. "I should've figured, with that body of yours." She smiled lasciviously. "You don't show as much as Superman, but I prefer a little mystery, don't you?"

"It won't work," Batman replied bluntly.

"Bet that's what you tell all the girls." A gentle hand brushed against the wrist holding her. Batman knew he should grab that one too, right now, to keep her from playing any more games. But he didn't; he let her fingers gently play along his glove. "Sit down. Let's talk." She turned towards him, her shoulders gently brushing against a set of thick water pipes running along the wall. "Get to know each other better. We'll be sharing the city for a while, after all."

"You won't be doing much at Blackgate besides serving your sentence." Despite his mind now actively demanding that he get a better grip on this obviously dangerous woman, his other arm still hadn't moved.

Catwoman frowned. "Sounds dull. But I know how to liven things up a little. How about a little... bondage play." Her free hand flashed out. Before Batman could blink, he found one of his wrists tied to a water pipe by a police issue flexi-cuff. He tugged at it, but both cuff and pipe held fast. His face remained impassive, but his brain was exploding in a string of expletives and self-flagellation. _Idiot!_

Catwoman took a step back, her smirk back in place. "There. That's better. You know..." She picked her whip back up and took a step towards him; Batman tensed, prepared to defend himself by whatever means necessary. "There's been something I've been thinking about doing ever since I read about you in the papers..."

It was then that she did the last thing he expected she'd do.

She kissed him.

Her lips were moist and warm against his. His heart pounded, a reaction he'd never gotten from a woman, and one he definitely wasn't expecting. But he couldn't deny his mind turning into mush; all he could think about, all he could feel, was _her_.

It seemed like hours before she separated herself from him; her smirk had gained a small edge of actual warmth. "Mmm, _very_ nice. You should let that side of you out more often." She licked her lips. "Tell you what," she said. She opened her satchel and drew out the glittering Star of Ceylon, mockingly placing it around his neck. "You can keep this. Meeting you in person was more than enough reward for tonight." She gave him a finger wave. "Ta-ta... for now." Her legs launched her onto the next rooftop, then out of sight.

His mental haze gone almost instantly, it took him only seconds to free himself from the flexi-cuff. But that was all the time she needed; she was long gone.

Batman's mind whirled with rage. _What the hell was that? Am I a fucking amateur now?_ How had she managed to get the drop on him so completely? Why was he so distracted? It was as though, on some level, he hadn't _wanted_ to catch her. But that was ridiculous; why would he ever want something like that?

And why were his lips still tingling...?

**AN: I also considered making Lauren into Victor Zsasz (because of the name), but I've always liked villains who are both strong and smart. Plus, the current casting had some appeal to me. :)  
**


	4. Finding a Voice

**AN: I realize this has more limited appeal than my other work, because of the crossover-y nature requiring at least some knowledge/interest of another title entirely. That's what makes the feedback and hits I get even more precious, so thanks to those of you who _are_ interested!**

**PS: Pardon if a section of this isn't as good as it could be; I had to recreate a large portion after a sudden document expiration took away my unsaved words (arrgh!). Hopefully, you won't be able to tell when it happens...  
**

Batman dove for cover as the hail of machine gun fire pocked the wall behind him.

"Did I get him, Sugar?" The gargling voice that echoed from the other side of the warehouse vaguely resembled a cross between a stereotypical Edward G. Robinson and Robert DeNiro as Al Capone in _The Untouchables_. It certainly didn't sound like it came from a young woman with long blond hair and a sparkly red cocktail dress, especially since her lips weren't moving.

"I dunno," this woman replied in a pouty tone. "The nerve of some people, not just rolling over and dying like they're supposed to!"

Sugar Motta had always been spoiled. As the only child of powerful Mafia figure Al Motta, she was used to getting what she wanted; whatever wealth didn't buy, her father's reputation did. Then her path somehow crossed with that of Scarface. He too was a big shot gangster - only he was a little more... wooden than most.

That was because Scarface was a wooden dummy, barely two feet tall, carved in the shape of a mean-looking '20's gangster, complete with pinstriped suit, white hat, and functioning miniature tommy gun. Once operated by a nebbish, mostly silent man named Sandy Ryerson, aka the Ventriloquist, Scarface had risen as a feared underworld figure. Batman still wasn't sure how Scarface came into Sugar's hands, or what fate Ryerson had met, but in her tenure as the new Ventriloquist, the puppet's methods had become more violent than ever. Between that fact, and the major drug shipment Batman had come to cut off, he knew that neither puppet nor master was about to go quietly.

At the moment, he was being pinned down from two directions: Scarface himself, and a pair of enforcers with automatic weapons perched on a second floor landing on the opposite side of the warehouse. He could have dealt with just one of these with ease. Both together made matters more difficult.

"Come on out, y'freak!" Scarface's voice was equal parts enraged and mocking. "I got a little lead present waiting for ya!"

Batman's eyes darted about the dimly lit area, considering his options. There was much too much open space for his comfort; the crates he was hiding behind was about all the precious cover he had. He'd taken care of several of Scarface's goons outside, and a few inside before the boss him/herself appeared, but he knew that he didn't have a lot of time before more arrived, just as the two on the landing had inconveniently made their presence known just as he was about to capture the Ventriloquist.

"I'm bored!" Sugar complained. "He just won't come out!"

"Then we'll have to go to him!" True to the words, Scarface's voice became steadily louder as he continued. "The mug's a wimp, see? Doesn't even carry a piece! But don't get too close; he's a tricky son of a bitch!" The puppet's wooden neck doesn't strain as he turned behind him. "And you two! If he so much as shows his pointy bat ears, plug 'im!"

"Got it, boss!" one of them yelled out, much too quickly to be natural. Scarface's men (the ones still alive, at least) had long since learned to agree with anything he or the Ventriloquist said, eagerly. Most of them used to think the whole "cement shoes" thing was a long dead cliche. That notion was usually (and rather brutally) dispelled for most within a couple of weeks, either by whisper or by personal viewing - with no actual involvement, if they were lucky.

"You're being a real drag, Batman," Sugar said petulantly as she and Scarface carefully advanced, his tommy gun at the ready. "Tell ya what: my daddy will throw you a big funeral if you come out right now." Silence. "Okay, how about a wake too?" Still nothing. "Fine, you'll get a big fancy coffin! And that's final!" The nothing continued. She turned to Scarface. "You know, you're right; he really is a big ingrate. I hope he rots!" She stamped one foot in emphasis, the sound of her heel echoing against the corrugated metal walls.

"Then let's make 'im rot, Sugar. And quick! We got business to do, and this mug's making us waste time!" The two gingerly approached the pile of crates. "As long as we got the boys covering us, he's as good as..." Something flipped over the top of the crates and landed at the Ventriloquist's feet. It was black and spherical, shining in the harsh overhead lights. "What's th-" The sphere erupted in clouds of white smoke.

"Hey!" Sugar screeched. "No fair...!" To the goons above, it was as though the entire warehouse floor exploded into haze, swallowing both Scarface and Ventriloquist up in a single ravening gulp. A heavy, unnerving calm descended. The two gangsters glanced at each other nervously; one leaned forward a little, straining his ears.

"I don't hear anythin'..."

"B-boss?" the other asked tentatively. "You okay down there?" There was no response. The men raised their weapons, but neither fired, fearing Scarface's wrath. "Boss? C'mon, tell us if you're okay." The smoke was starting to dissipate, but there was still too much to make out anything more than vague shapes. "Scarface...?"

It was at that moment that a small object flashed by their field of vision. Before either could react, it hit the floor of the landing, shattering with a small tinkling sound. A burst of light that seemed to emanate from all around embraced the two thugs. Screaming, they dropped their weapons, their fingers rubbing at their eyes in a desperate attempt to drive the white from their vision. Thus, they never saw the grappling hook emerging from the mists below, clutching at a ceiling beam. Nor did they see the black-caped figure rocket out of the fog like a hungry demon rising from the depths of the abyss. They did, however, feel his fists against their jaws, not to mention the almost blissful unconsciousness that followed.

Batman kicked their weapons away as his smoke bomb dissipated. He glanced over the railing; Sugar Motta was still neatly bound and gagged on the floor, looking up at him with murderous eyes. Scarface lay beside her, inert without her guiding hand. Nodding to himself, he pressed a button on his handheld communicator; the signal would tell Oracle to send in the Gotham police to clean up the rest of this mess and arrest the remainder of Scarface's gang.

Satisfied that all dangerous elements would be safely under control until they arrived, Batman skulked from the warehouse like a shadow. He had an appointment, and he was already running late as it was...

* * *

Kurt sipped delicately at his wine as he glanced at his watch. _Almost twenty minutes..._ David had called earlier, full of apologies, saying that he would be running "a tad late," and to enjoy a fine Cabernet on him while he waited. He shook his head and sighed; he supposed he should've expected this, considering the man's reputation. Still, it did give a welcome respite to gather his thoughts and plan an avenue of attack.

Simone's Grill was one of the fanciest restaurants in Gotham City, a steakhouse that regularly served the elite and famous. Just getting onto their reservation books was considered a sign of elevated status. Kurt shook his head as he glanced over the prices for the Wagyu filet mignon and New York strip that promised months of aging. The cost of a single dish, even a lousy appetizer, would've fed his family for a week. But then, one of the other highlights of Simone's touted by those in the know was _discretion_ - no autograph seekers inside, no paparazzi outside, no whisper of anything done or said within its walls by any of its staff. That alone was enough to make the outrageous prices worth it for some, even without the melt-in-your-mouth beef.

Kurt had not been surprised that he was sitting here, waiting for one of the richest men in America to share a meal, but he was pleased; it just proved he hadn't lost his charm. He had, though, been a little surprised when it was David Karofsky himself who showed up on his doorstep, bashful grin and roses in hand. Usually, it was a secretary or servant who called and made arrangements, which always struck Kurt as so cold and impersonal. But there the man was, blushing like a teenager taking his dream girl out to the prom, asking for the honor of his company. What boy could resist a gesture like that from a multimillionaire?

He had, of course, done his research on the man before arriving. It was funny, though; for all that was written and said about David Karofsky, real substance was oddly lacking. Besides the occasional huge charitable donation, announcement of Karofsky Enterprises' new product or discovery, and rare testimony before some Congressional subcommittee or another, there was little indication that he was interested in anything besides globetrotting and being seen with a different beautiful man each week. Kurt couldn't bring himself to believe that someone, even one born as wealthy as Karofsky, could be quite _that_ shallow.

Unlike, say, Batman... Now there was someone with _way _too much depth. Kurt frowned at himself in annoyance for letting his mind drift back to _him_, but he couldn't help it. Strength and intensity practically radiated off the man like heat. No wonder Kurt's stomach had dropped just at the sight of him, a stronger version of what happened that night he first saw David Karofsky. He still felt a little _wrong_ for having kissed Batman like he did, what with the false gender pretenses (the contrasting irony of _not_ feeling particularly bad for all those robberies he'd committed over the years was not lost on him). But, like so much of what Kurt did, it was an impulse - he couldn't help himself. And, God... everything that was attractive about Batman practically shot through Kurt's body the instant their lips touched. It was like the contact was stripping them both naked, down to the skin, yet without the barest hint of sex.

Kurt took another gulp of wine, willing that moment out of his head. It wouldn't do to mix business with pleasure, not at all; he'd already been burnt quite badly by trying, thank you very much. Energy thinking about a single moment of ecstasy that would never be repeated (after all, shouldn't he be hoping that he never runs into Batman again?) would be better spent thinking about how to get as close to David Karofsky as possible in the most efficient manner. The sooner he was on the millionaire's arm, visiting the homes of his wealthy and security-careless friends, the better, especially since a Lothario like Karofsky would quickly grow tired of him. Kurt was determined to get as much use out of this limited-time opportunity as he could.

His eyes flickered towards the entrance as he heard the muffled voice of the maitre d' say, "Mr. Karofsky! Good evening! So good to see you again!" Kurt straightened his tie and put on his most charming smile. _Showtime._

* * *

David had always believed in never doing things halfway. He'd never said as much to Quinn or Sam, because he knew what their reaction would be: a roll of the eyes and some smartass remark whose meaning would boil down to "duh." But it was true nevertheless; he could still remember his father (_God... Dad..._) telling him to "go big or go home," to "grab a hold of life and never let go." So while he did feel a _little_ embarrassed showing up at Kurt Hummel's door the way he did, he never once doubted its rightness.

Still, it did bring him back to that night at the gala, his reaction, his feelings. The... _intensity_ had not gone down since then; that was the main reason why he was entering Simone's to begin with, not to mention taking a nervous glance at his reflection in the door to make sure his tie was straight. Here he was, World's Greatest Detective according to Sam (mostly joking, but with enough seriousness to annoy), and he _still_ couldn't figure out what it was about Kurt Hummel that was so... captivating. Perhaps this dinner was a way to figure it out.

It was also a way to get his mind off of his still lingering confusion over his encounter with Catwoman. David was still fairly sure he was gay, and he knew that human sexuality was a lot more fluid than most people thought, but still... It felt as though there was a simple answer, nagging at the back of his mind, that he just couldn't quite reach out and grasp. Well, whatever it was, he'd figure it out during their next meeting (and he was certain he would find Catwoman again, and for the _last_ time).

Even as he stepped into the dining room, he was aware of how many questions about Kurt Hummel he was ignoring: whether this could turn into anything serious, whether he _wanted_ it to turn into something more serious, what it would do to his... other activities. The questions melted away as his eyes darted about, finding Kurt at a table near the back, giving him a cheerful wave. He nodded to the maitre d' and put on his easy, lazy smile as he approached his date.

"Hey. Sorry I'm late. I hope you haven't been waiting long?"

"Not really. You look great." Kurt gave a smile that instantly sent David's heart racing; he started invoking some of his meditation mantras to start slowing it down.

"Thanks. You too." He nodded thanks as Kurt poured him a glass of wine. "Ever been to Simone's before?"

"No, but I've heard a lot about it. It's a lovely place."

"Yeah. It's nice to be able to relax for a little while, out of the public eye and all. Get away from my responsibilities."

"Ah, yes. The responsibilities of being incredibly wealthy and famous. Must be tough not having to work a day in your life." David had no way of knowing, but Kurt stunned himself with the blade-like edge of sarcasm that came into his voice. _What the fuck are you doing, Hummel? You're supposed to be seducing the man, not telling him what you _really_ think! _He realized with growing horror that his impulses were starting to steer him in directions he never intended, never wanted... or didn't think he wanted. He tried not to think too hard about this and get back into the now.

David, for his part, merely smiled. "I don't usually get that on the first date."

Kurt flushed. "I... I'm sorry, I don't know why I..."

"Actually... I kind of appreciate it."

Blink. Blink. "You do?"

David nodded. "I know that most people are at least _thinking_ it. But you're one of the first men I've met who actually had the guts to say it to my face. I don't get that kind of honesty every day." He sipped at his wine. "There you go - that's actually one way being 'incredibly wealthy and famous' isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Regardless, I could've been more tactful about it. I apologize."

"No need. Like I said, I appreciate honesty."

"Well, then, _honestly_, I'm starving!"

David chuckled. "Do you know what you want?"

"You're the the one in the know here. I put myself into your capable hands."

David nodded, the gesture both answering Kurt and summoning a waiter to their table. "Usual for me and my companion, please, Dwayne." The waiter nodded, taking the menus in a single graceful stroke and silently gliding away. "So... You and half the world probably know all about me. Tell me about yourself."

Kurt shrugged. "My life isn't very interesting..."

"It is to me. If it weren't, I wouldn't have asked you out." David regarded Kurt's face, shining like porcelain in the flickering candlelight. "Come on. I promise I won't sell your story to the papers."

Kurt laughed, the sound high and rolling like a bell. "Okay, you've convinced me. Where to start...?" He paused, and David, his eye for people sharpened by years of training, could almost see the gears turning, calculating how much to reveal and how. If he'd been a different man, the one he presented himself as to the public, he would've amused himself wondering what skeletons Kurt Hummel had in his closet. "I grew up in a small town. Just my dad and me. He ran a mechanic shop." David knew better than to ask about Kurt's mother; he, of all people, knew the pain he could cause by digging into graves that way. "I was out, even before I knew what that meant... I guess it never occurred to me to hide who I was. It was my dream to get out, to make it in the big city."

"Do you miss home at all?"

"The only thing I would've missed was my dad, and he died a few years back. Heart attack."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've had my time to mourn. But in a weird way, it was freeing. I was able to leave and never look back. I went to New York, bounced between my various loves until I settled on interior design. I worked hard, damn hard. I paid my dues and then some. I clawed my way to the top of my game, and I did it on my own. No one to help me or pick up my slack." Kurt's bright blue eyes had turned hard, and immediately, David knew - knew where that spark, that instant attraction, had come from. It was Kurt's intensity, his passion and drive... His inner strength... All those things that shone through his every feature at this very moment. These were the qualities that he'd seen in Kurt in that one brief moment at the gala, the ones that touched him... the ones he always wanted - and drove to have - in himself.

"As opposed to having everything handed to me on a silver platter, eh?"

"You said it, not me," Kurt replied with an ironic smile. "I like this honesty business! It's so refreshing to turn off the filter for a while!"

Both laughed. "You're telling me."

"Oh? What kind of mask do _you_ put on, Mr. Karofsky?"

David nearly choked on his wine; he had to forcefully remind himself that the question wasn't nearly as literal as it sounded. _The guilty flee..._ "To tell you the truth..." His voice dropped to a low whisper. "I find building dedications really boring."

Kurt snickered. "Don't worry, I won't run to the tabloids." His face turned serious. "But seriously... What do you _do_ with yourself? I read the papers, and... That can't be_ it_, can it?"

David shrugged, a carefully calculated move designed to give the impression of a casual one. "Well, I also go to Karofsky Enterprises board meetings... Those are _real_ fun, I'll tell you... I watch hockey..."

"None of that really answers my question. What do you _do_?"

"You'd be surprised," David replied with a small smile. "I guess I'd say... I do what I want to do."

"That's nice." Kurt's voice was half-sardonic, half-dreamy, but quickly turned serious as he continued. "But in a sense, I do too. I worked damn hard to get where I am, and I'm proud of what I've accomplished, even if most people don't see the value in it."

"Well, _I _think interior design is important. I can't imagine what life would be life if everyone's houses looked the same. Or like Ikea or some shit like that."

Kurt gave a somewhat odd, mysterious grin in return. "Well, thank you. Still... Let me rephrase my question: what drives you? What do you want to accomplish?"

David stroked his chin. "Well, I kind of said this back at the gala... I want Gotham to be the way I remembered. Before Batman and all the nuts came in and started turning everything to shit."

"Batman?" Kurt raised an eyebrow. "I thought he was supposed to be a hero around these parts."

"Yeah, some people think he is. Others think he's just a crazy vigilante. But... what if he's part of the problem? What if he's drawing all the crazy people like the Joker in to Gotham? I mean, he may be doing good cleaning up the streets, but is it worth the cost if he is?"

Kurt stared at him for a few moments, a gaze that caused David to shift uncomfortably as it went on - David, who had just spent a good part of his evening dodging machine gun fire. Finally, he spoke. "You really do care about this place, don't you?"

David shrugged. "I do. My parents did. The least I can do is continue what they were doing in their memory."

"Yeah, but that's still them. That doesn't say anything about _you_."

David opened his mouth to answer, but was, to his relief, interrupted by the arrival of the wedge salads. From there, the conversation took a lighter turn; they somehow got onto the topic of musicals over the salads, with David finding a lot of amusement in listening to Kurt's righteous rants over the popularity of Andrew Lloyd Webber ("You'd think that Broadway lived and died over _Phantom_ and _Les Miz_! I mean, they were all right, but seriously, get a sense of _history_, people!"). He enjoyed Kurt practically having orgasms over his steak ("This is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth! If I had to go to a church, I'd find one that worshiped _this steak_!"), and chatted about the latest news over peach Melba ("Catwoman? I feel sorry for her victims, honestly. I'm sure they're hard working people like you, David...").

By the time they were having their after-dinner drinks, they were both consciously lingering, realizing that the evening was starting to draw to a close. David paid the bill with a sleek black credit card that made Kurt's eyes light up. Their conversation started to sputter as they reached for any topic that came to mind, any excuse to not look at the clock ("That waiter is cute. What do you suppose he does when he goes home? Sneak out leftovers?"). But as with all things defined by humanity, the time came when they both knew that it had to end.

David and Kurt rose at practically the same time. As they strolled towards the entrance, towards the real world, David coughed. "I, uh... I had a good time. Thanks for coming."

"Thank you for inviting me." Kurt tentatively reached out and held one of David's hands. "I had a good time too." The shine in his eyes, the slightest tremor in his voice, the warmth of his hand and its movements... David had long, tough-won experience reading people, reading their truths and lies. For the first time that night, he let his instincts read his own date. He saw nothing but sincerity in those sea blue eyes, eyes he was starting to get lost in...

He shook his head a little. "I, um... My schedule is kind of crazy..."

Kurt laughed. "I know what you mean."

"But... I'll call. I promise."

"I'll be waiting."

The two stared at each other a moment longer before David pushed the restaurant doors open, letting in a blast of cool evening air. William was already waiting at the curb, holding open the car door. David nodded towards it. "Do you want a ride?"

"No, it's a lovely night. I think I'll walk; it's not too far."

"Okay, then. I'll see you soon."

"See you." Kurt watched as David got into the car; David, even as he settled into his seat, watched back, not wanting or daring to break eye contact until the door shut. He stared out the window as William got back into the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb. As they drove away, he resisted the urge to look out the back like some schoolkid.

"Have a good time, Master David?" William asked. David couldn't be sure (William was one of those people he never could _quite_ get a handle on, despite their long association and his training), but he thought he could hear the slightest hints of interest and smugness in the voice.

"Yeah." He loosened his tie and leaned back in his seat. "I did."

William nodded, as if the answer was only of minor interest.

They drove on.

* * *

Kurt watched the car go, shaking his head to himself. It had gone well... _Much_ too well. He hadn't expected... what? So kindred a spirit? Someone with the same kind of ambition and determination as he? Karofsky... David... had try to downplay it, but Kurt could see it all too well, in his eyes, in his bearing. He'd seen that kind of strength in the mirror way too many times to not recognize it in someone else.

_I suppose if you've always lived here, you might consider Gotham worth it, _he thought as he started his way home. _He obviously does care about this place._ But it wasn't the whole story... That he could tell. But he had time to find out the entire truth..._  
_

Kurt made a disgusted snorting sound. Listen to him, anticipating their next meeting like some lovestruck high schooler. Had he forgotten why he started this thing in the first place? The kind of man Karofsky was? _Yet that reputation doesn't jive with the man you just met, does it? _No, it didn't, and there was another minor mystery right there.

Still, no matter what the outcome, it was a pleasant enough evening. He'd had a wonderful meal - for free, no less - shared pleasant enough company, and even found a new place to scout for potential targets in the bargain. All he needed now was some kind of nightcap to make his evening truly complete...

"Hey, lady boy." Kurt froze. Two men emerged from the alley ahead, each brandishing a knife and grinning wickedly. Both were rotund, one black and one white; the latter had light blonde curly hair while the former was shaved bald. It was the former who spoke, and the former who continued. "You're dressed up all nice and fancy, faggot. Bet you got a nice full wallet, don'tcha?"

"Hand over your money and your watch," the other chimed in. "Unless you want your pretty face all messed up." He swung his knife, the blade cutting through the air with a woosh.

Kurt began chuckling, a mirthful sound which wiped the smiles off the muggers' faces in sheer confusion. He cracked his knuckles in anticipation. _A nightcap. Perfect._


	5. Take No Prisoners

The air stunk of sweat, urine, and fear, yet it was quiet - unreasonably so, as if no one dared to even audibly breathe. The old Newhill Penitentiary had been the center of Gotham's prison system before Blackgate was built. Even decades later, even after urban sprawl pushed the limits of the surrounding land in the name of progress, Newhill was still isolated, surrounded by untouched and uninhabited tracts of forest, as if the city itself were afraid to come anywhere near the desiccated, rotted place. There had been many attempts to raze the decaying structure, many attempts to turn it to different purpose, and even a few tries at bestowing some kind of historical preservation status on it. All had failed, either due to circumstance or lack of interest. So Newhill stood, and crumbled, in silence, forgotten or outright ignored. Until now.

Almost every cell with a sound structure had a prisoner within. Dozens were occupied by men and women in gray jumpsuits; all were either lying on their cots, covered with nothing but a sleeping pad and a single sheet, or leaning listlessly against the bars, staring at Batman as he passed by as though he weren't actually there. One held a notorious gang banger from the Fulson Street Bloods, missing for over two weeks; Detective Tinsley had been investigating the disappearance as turf war related foul play. Batman recognized another prisoner nearby as a ruthless CFO and unrepentant embezzler who'd "jumped bail" five days previous. A third cell contained one of the Penguin's top lieutenants. All these people were hardened criminals in their own way, definitely not the kind to roll over and lay down for anyone. But none showed but the barest spark of life, their eyes glassy and defeated, their limbs hanging numb and limp.

Batman's nerves jangled as he silently made his way through the cell block. At least he didn't have to worry about the prisoners making any noise that might alert their captor. On the other hand, he wouldn't be able to expect any help from them either. So far, though, no sign of their jailer...

The pain exploded in the very center of his back. Despite his cape, despite the insulation woven into his costume, enough electricity surged through him to slam the breath from his lungs. Barely managing to stay on his feet, he lunged forward, putting some distance between him and the agony. Within moments, he was cloaked in the comforting embrace of the shadows.

"Geez, there's something you don't see every day." The mocking voice echoed through the halls, sending the prisoners into paroxysms of terror. "Someone breaking _into_ a prison!"

Noah Puckerman was head guard at Arkham Asylum before he was fired for extreme brutality towards his charges. Embittered by the loss of his job, and seething at a system he thought woefully insufficient at keeping the "loonies" in, he remade himself into a vicious vigilante. Calling himself Lock-Up, he began "doing what Batman doesn't have the balls to do" and imposing his own brand of justice, serving as judge, jury, and warden over anyone he deemed a criminal or who'd slipped through the cracks of the court system. The only reason, it seemed, he didn't become executioner was that he thought death was "too easy" for "Gotham bottom feeders."

He stalked down the hall, dressed in his modified riot gear, tapping his Taser/nightstick in his hand. The visor of his helmet was up, revealing a pair of eyes dancing in anticipation. "See that, boys and girls?" he called out to the cowering prisoners. "You all got yourselves a guest! Sadly, visiting hours are long over, so he's gotta go. I got a nice ditch dug out back for him, so I'll take care of him and be back with you all in just a few minutes." He practically swaggered in the general direction Batman had retreated, although his eyes were alert and his nightstick was at the ready.

"Y'know, Bats, I really gotta wonder why you're bothering me. I mean, we're a lot alike. And I don't mean in the way that stupid fucking clown and all those other nutsos say you're like them; I mean it. We both just want what's best for Gotham. We know the courts and prisons are shitty at their job. We hate the way these worthless douches never learn from their mistakes." He paused, whirling to his right, brandishing the nightstick. Nothing happened. The tension dropped from his body once more as he continued gingerly forward. "Tell ya what: let's talk about this. You just leave me alone to do my _job_, and I can make yours a whole hell of a lot easier. Hey, maybe we can work together! We'll clean up the likes of the Penguin and Scarecrow in no time! Isn't that what we want? For people to not be afraid?"

"No." The reply seemed to echo from every direction at once; Lock-Up whirled about, trying to find the source of the voice. He only saw light and shadow and the worn figures of the criminals he was holding. "All you want is to inflict pain, cloaking yourself behind a delusion of righteousness. You're scum, Puckerman, worse than the people you're holding against their will."

"Fuck you!" Lock-Up shrieked, the grip on his nightstick turning white-knuckled. "You're just a fucking coward! Come on! Come on out and show yourself! Or are you just gonna knock me out with one of your fancy toys while you're hiding in the dark like the fucking fag you are?"

It wasn't about showing him up. That's what Batman would tell himself later. Such impulse would've been foolish. He was merely shaking Puckerman's belief in himself, his rightness, and his strength. He was showing the prisoners that someone was willing to step forward, into the light, and stand up for their rights. He wasn't striking out of anger or insult. Of course not.

Lock-Up never saw the kick coming. He certainly felt it, though, sharp and swift, and heard his bones shake under the impact. The nightstick flew out of his hand, bouncing, then skittering, across the floor and vanishing into the dark. Batman stood where there had been empty floor only a moment before, his fists clenched. Lock-Up laughed. "Now this is more fucking like it!" He crouched into a ready position, his own fists curling up. Puckerman had his own martial arts training, a skilled Krav Maga practitioner. He made a mocking "bring it" hand gesture. A moment later, Batman sprung.

_Strike. Chop. Kick._ Both men were wearing heavy outfits, but neither seemed affected by it; their punches flashed out like lightning. _Dodge. Counter._ Batman's mind was blank, the world narrowed to just him and his opponent. Thoughts of his own physical condition, of his foe's fighting style, of his little physical tells that telegraphed his moves just as loudly as if he'd shouted them at the top of his lungs... These and more scrolled in the back of his mind, never consciously processed. As far as his consciousness could tell, he was operating on instinct alone, nothing in thought to distract from action. _Duck. Step. Punch._

Noah Puckerman's mind, on the other hand, was running a mile a minute. _Shit! I forgot how good he was..._ He was starting to sweat, his skills pushed to the limit, his body barely able to keep up with Batman's assaults. A vicious chop caught him on the side of his head. His helmet protected his consciousness, but the force of the impact knocked the helmet off entirely. Puckerman stood, haloed in the overhead light, his bare scalp dripping with sweat as it ran down its shaved sides in rivulets. "That... that the best you can do?" he panted. Batman stared back silently, his chest rising and falling in regular rhythm, as if untouched by strain or exhaustion. "Okay, then... Round two."

_Sweep. Punch. Turn._ Batman had actually not heard anything Lock-Up had said. His mind was too focused on which arm he was going to launch his next attack from, which way he was going to step, and planning a counter for each scenario. _Block. Grab. Twist._ Lock-Up screamed in pain as he felt his left arm brush his back. Enraged, he snapped his head backwards, catching Batman in the chin. He stumbled out of the hero's grip, his arm throbbing. For his part, Batman was conscious of the pain, but only barely. _Leap. Blind with cape. Snap kick. Kneecap. Throat punch._

As he often did, Batman found himself having to actively pull all of himself back into reality when it was over. Lock-Up lay on the floor, groaning in agony. Not a jot of pity stirred in his chest as he tied Puckerman's wrists together behind his back with a pair of flexi-cuffs. The gathered prisoners were now all at their cell doors. Some were staring in something like disbelief. Others were hooting and hollering at the fallen vigilante, with the nearer ones spitting at his fallen form. They were waking up from the stupor of fear that Lock-Up had placed them in. Some would be put back into prison, a real prison, while others would be let back out into the streets for lack of offense. That group would quickly be back up to their old tricks - of that Batman was certain. But if they were punished, it would be by the state and the people, not the whim of one sadist.

Batman was seen by Gotham, by the world at large, as a grim figure, a living Reaper of the criminal element, a heartless scourge. But a few - among them Quinn, Sam, and Commissioner Fabray - knew the truth. "You work so hard every day not to step over your own line," Quinn had once mused during a deep data dive. "You really think that you... that _we_ can turn this city around, and you put everything you have into making it happen. You're the biggest idealist I know, David."

He often wondered if that was a good thing or not.

* * *

With his run-in with Batman still fresh in his mind, and the distinct impression that he was incredibly lucky to have escaped, Kurt decided that a little change in M.O. was in order. First order of business, ratchet down the target profile. A few small-level jobs could be just as profitable as one big score anyway, and the variety would keep him from getting too bored. Next, take greater care to cover up. Fortunately, he already had a variety of very good fake stones at the ready. Unless the marks looked _very_ carefully, they wouldn't know they had lost anything for months, if ever. Finally, slow the pace. This would be the most difficult step; every idle night was a night spent with his blood boiling, yearning to feel the wind against his face as he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, the excitement of dodging surveillance cameras and guards, the thrill of holding the forbidden in his hands, knowing that he got to that point with his own skill and cunning.

The urges were made worse by the prospect of Batman. Kurt knew he should be doing everything possible, praying to every nonexistent god he could think of, to make sure they _wouldn't_ meet again. After all, he'd come within a cat's whisker of being shut down for good the _very first time_ they faced each other. But by God, he was a worthy foe; that was something he hadn't had since... ever.

At the same time, he knew it was more than that. The very thought was disturbing; there were _so_ many reasons it was a bad idea, _so _many reasons it would never work, not even for a one night stand.

But, of course, logic versus emotion, especially for someone like him, was a lopsided, losing battle to begin with.

So as Kurt extracted himself from the diamond exchange, leaving behind his pretty but worthless baubles as replacement for their oh-so-genuine and precious gems, he already had his voice changer activated, ready just in case. Anticipation shot through him like needles, just like every time he first set foot into a new target. He was three blocks away from the exchange when he saw the silhouette. His adrenaline spiked in both joy and nervousness.

"Hey again," he purred, his voice turned feminine and alluring by the electronic device at his throat. "Congratulations on finding me. Just a lucky break...? But no, you don't seem like the kind of man to depend on those."

"You may have changed your M.O., but you still have a comfort zone, a pattern," Batman growled. "Put them together, and it wasn't difficult to narrow it down. All I had to do was wait."

"Very clever. I'll remember to change things up a bit more next time."

"There's not going to _be_ a next time." Batman stepped forward; Kurt matched the motion with his own step back, his mind still focused on escape routes. _There's the roof behind me; the fire escape is ten feet to the left... _"I suggest you come quietly."

"Ah, then you just don't know me, do you? The only thing I do quietly is sneak. The _only_ thing." He put on his best saucy grin, and... oh! His lip twitched, just the tiniest bit. _Damn, you're good, Hummel._ His triumph and satisfaction completely smothered his lingering guilt over his gender deception (guilt he still wasn't quite sure he knew the reason for). "I slipped up a little the last time, but I'm afraid that as much as having your hands on me would be a pleasurable experience... not to mention your handcuffs... the whole _jail_ thing isn't my cup of tea."

"This isn't a request," Batman growled, taking another step towards him. He was hiding it very well, but Kurt could tell he was rattled, just a little. He was almost giddy; he hadn't had this much _fun_ in years.

"Besides, what would you be arresting me _for_? It's my word against yours that I ever touched the Star of Ceylon, you know. And I've been such a good girl ever since..."

Batman snorted. "Not likely. In fact, I'd wager that your satchel contains gems from... West Diamond Exchange?" His jaw (a very firm, strong jaw, Kurt observed) set. "I'll give you credit for being more subtle. But it's over."

"Oh, _au contraire_, my dear Batman. It's just begun." A cliche line, but for the sake of drama, acceptable. Kurt flipped backwards over the edge of the building and out of sight. He imagined the reaction in his mind's eye: Batman's eyes going wide, moving quickly but cautiously towards the ledge. He'd pause, unsure whether to look over; it could be a trap, after all. But he couldn't just stand there forever like an idiot. He'd gird his loins and, with great caution and cute tricks at the ready, he'd peek over the edge right about...

Batman's face appeared above him.

Now.

Kurt planted his feet against the wall of the building, launching himself into the air by his whip, solidly wrapped around a leering stone gargoyle. He effortlessly flipped himself over the stricken Batman and landed gracefully behind the broody vigilante. A snap of his wrist brought his whip coiling at his feet. "Startled you, did I?" he smiled. "So you're human after all." No response. "Really, why do we have to be enemies? I'm not like the other meanies you have to face; I don't take joy in making other people suffer. I just want a few more shiny things in my life. Is that so bad? The only people who get hurt are the pompous overstuffed one percenters who like trampling on the little people..."

"That still doesn't give you the right," came the blunt reply.

"Mmm, you're as inflexible as they say." Kurt couldn't help casting a lustful eye up and down Batman's stolid form. "Hopefully not all the time." He wrapped his arms around his chest, careful not to crush the false boobs too much. "Look, handsome, this teasing you is fun and all, but I'm serious; don't you have bigger fish to worry about?"

"Gotham's _my_ city. I'll fight anyone - anything - that despoils it. You are one of them."

Kurt pouted. "That's not very nice." He began pacing in a large, lazy circle around Batman, who turned to face him constantly, but otherwise did not move. "But really, denial is _so_ tiresome. Ask yourself this: why haven't you tried to capture me yet? Why are you just standing back and letting me... us... talk instead of taking me down and carting me off into the gentle hands of the GCPD?" Batman's expression was almost unreadable under the cowl, but Kurt felt confident he'd scored a hit. "Because you felt it. A spark between us."

"You're deluded." The personal insult only confirmed Kurt's suspicions. _Yes, a palpable hit indeed._

"Ah, you say no, but your body said, and says, yes. The truth, tall, dark and handsome, is that this world frankly sucks, and we all deal with it in different ways. Some people put on a happy face and ignore that basic truth. Others just shut down in misery and despair. Others, like you, try to fight it, and beat your fists bloody trying. And others, smart others like myself, embrace the fact, use it to make their own lives better."

"So you're just an innocent making your way in the big bad world, and so I shouldn't care who you hurt to get your way. Is that it?"

Kurt smirked. _Ah, I really _am _getting to him... In _many _ways._ "I'm saying that I'm doing what it takes to survive. And for a little petty revenge, I'll admit. But at least I'm honest with myself about the whys." He cocked his head. "What about you? How's the 'big bad world' hurt you?" No answer came, but he didn't expect any. "Must have been pretty bad, for you to be so determined to save it. But it's sweet."

"Enough." There was no real emotion in the voice, but that fact alone sent a shiver down Kurt's spine - a shiver that wasn't all from fear. "You can spin any pretty justifications you want; you're just a common criminal."

Kurt wagged a finger. "Uh uh. Please don't insult me that way. I'm a most _uncommon_ criminal, thank you very much." In less time than it took Kurt to blink, Batman was standing mere inches from him. He had to suppress a rather, well, girly screech. _How the fuck did he _do_ that?_

"It's over," was all Batman said. One of his gauntlet-clad hands shot out. But by then, Kurt had recovered from his surprise, and lashed out.

The claws glittered like diamonds in the moonlight. Fitted over his gloves by a network of flexible wires, they were lightweight, but oh so sharp - as Batman found, to his astonishment, as they sliced through the chest of his costume. There was no blood drawn - Kurt could barely see body armor underneath the shredded outfit - but a hit nonetheless.

Kurt took advantage of Batman's evident shock to put some distance between them. He had little illusions about who would win an extended battle, and sometimes discretion really was the better part of valor. Besides, this was the perfect dramatic note on which to end the night. "It's been fun, really, but I'm the type who knows when he's beat. We'll have to do this again some other time." Another two flips, and Kurt knew that he was out of the reach of the Dark Knight (and oh, what a lovely nickname that was). As the wind whistled in his ears, the night cold against the small amount of exposed skin that peeked through his outfit, Kurt reveled in the freedom, in the power, and in the fantasies he would have in bed later, just thinking about Mr. Brooding and Mysterious...

* * *

Batman's mind was reeling. The picture was becoming clear, _finally_. World's Greatest Detective, indeed; he was ashamed of himself, the way he was so slow to put things together.

The slight buzz in her voice that he'd noticed in his recording of their first encounter, betraying use of an electronic voice changer. Some of Catwoman's acrobatics, very strongly evoking standard routines in gymnastics pommel horse events. That little slip of the tongue just now.

And his own reaction to their kiss. Batman knew he knew himself better than that.

All of these things were small, meaningless on their own, easily dismissed. But put together, he could come to only one conclusion. He had no real proof, but he knew in his bones he was right.

The so-called "Catwoman" was a man.

**AN: Hope this wasn't too repetitious; this one was tough to plot out, but I felt it was necessary, so I decided to just get it down into words and be done with it. Don't worry, the rest of this is going to have quite a bit happening...**


	6. Beloved

Gotham stretched out before him, a field of darkness punctuated by the twinkle of apartment and streetlights. His city, the city of his parents. Both had grown up here, impressing upon him their love of their hometown, their hopes and dreams for its future. He often wondered if he was doing enough, if he was making enough of a difference, if Mom and Dad would be proud of him. He hoped so. He prayed so.

It was quiet at the moment, nothing but the distant sound of traffic reaching his ears. Even the police bands were practically flat, with officers joking and chatting with each other in direct violation of standard protocol. These were the moments Batman savored, the moments he wished (as futile as it was) would last forever. Being able to catch even a glimpse of what Gotham could be, Gotham at its best, reminded him of why he went on with his crusade.

His ears caught a whisper of movement behind him. His mind immediately analyzed it: expert-level stealth, betrayed only by the fact that he knew its methods himself. A single subject, lightweight, probably female, standing at least twenty feet behind him without closing. No weapons drawn, at least not yet. All that added up to one person that he knew.

"Tina," he rumbled without turning.

"Beloved," the smooth feminine voice behind him replied, just as casually.

Only then did Batman turn. A young woman stood there, dressed in a black jumpsuit, her long hair flickering in the cold breeze. She didn't look at all dangerous, but that was just one facet of what made her so very deadly. There was a reason why she was field leader of the League of Assassins, the most dangerous organization of cold-blooded killers in the world. Her presence in Gotham could mean nothing good.

"Where's your father?" Batman asked, though his senses hadn't perceived the presence of anyone but her in the immediate vicinity. Not that that mattered - the League of Assassins prided themselves on killing even when their operatives weren't within miles of their target. "Did Ra's send you to give me another warning we both know I'll ignore? Or does he still think I'll return to his fold?"

Tina shook her head, taking a step forward. "The Demon's Head is my liege and my parent. But he does not control me completely. I am here alone, and on my own behalf."

Ra's al Ghul was ultimate head of the League of Assassins, and one of Batman's most dangerous foes. A megalomaniac who believed that the world was irredeemably corrupt, he'd already tried at least twice to wipe out massive swaths of the population so he could rebuild "a better world" on its ashes, plots that Batman had to spend much time, blood, sweat, and tears thwarting. For the dominant figure of an international band of cutthroats, Ra's seemed to be an unlikely candidate. He was a young-looking man of apparent Asian origin, though he claimed to be hundreds of years old, a boast Batman met with skepticism. When they first met, Batman had thought Ra's and Tina lovers; the man's appearance certainly made him look more like Tina's peer than her parent. The truth, in fact, was even more uncomfortable: Ra's al Ghul wanted, needed, an heir. He thought Batman the only man in the world worthy to either be that heir, or to produce one through his daughter.

It didn't matter what Batman himself wanted; both Ra's and Tina knew who he really was, and thus his sexuality. The only thing that mattered to Ra's was his dream, his goals. Everything else was irrelevant. That was just one of the many reasons why Batman had set himself in opposition to the Demon's Head, despite any small drop of sympathy he might have felt towards his point of view.

"Tina..." he began, not unkindly. Despite her devotion to her father and his causes, he had an odd sort of sympathy for her. He knew what it was like to struggle to make a world your parents wanted, to buckle sometimes under the impossible weight of self-inflicted expectations. He might've even considered her a friend, had she not been who she was, had he not been who he was.

She shook her head to forestall the inevitable words. "I'm sorry, beloved, but I cannot accept your pity, or your refusals. I won't." Tina was closer now; she looked up at him, eyes shimmering in the moonlight. "Do you not realize how difficult this is for someone like me? I'm used to being strong, in control. But you... Even though Father wishes to force you upon me... I have come to want you of my own accord. I know it is foolish, but who says the heart is sane?" She was practically chest-to-chest with him now. Her hands reached up towards his face, towards his cowl. "David..." she whispered.

He took hold of her wrists; she didn't resist. His grip was tight, much tighter than he would've taken with most others of her stature, but he knew that to Tina, his strength was of little concern. She was still a match for him; in a fair, really serious fight, Batman put his chances against her at 55-45, maybe 60-40 at best. But of course, an organization like the League of Assassins would never teach its members to fight fair. "Don't," he said firmly.

"You don't have to love me," she said, her brow furrowed with emotion; he could tell at least one was some measure of self-disgust and humiliation at baring her feelings like this, laying herself so low for a man, any man. "I know that you will never feel towards me what I do for you. But I can make you happy. I can take you away from this hell on Earth, away from the guilt and pain that gnaws at your soul."

_I don't _want_ to be taken away from any of that._ That's what Batman wanted to say. But he realized, even as the thought formed in his mind, just how ridiculous and insane it sounded. "I can't be what you want," is what he actually did say. "I can't be what your father wants." He let go of her wrists; they dropped limply to her sides.

"What if I were to forswear the League of Assassins?" she asked quietly. "Leave them and my father, reject his ways?"

"You wouldn't," Batman replied simply.

She looked up at him with a small smile. "No, I wouldn't. You know me too well, beloved." She stared into his eyes for a long moment. He hid his discomfort as well as he usually did, but it never seemed to be enough with her and Ra's. "And I know you. There is... someone else, isn't there?" Batman remained silent and impassive; Tina's smile widened in amusement. "Oh, come now, you don't have to worry about me going out and killing him or anything of the sort. But I am concerned about your happiness. You may believe that or not, but I do."

"If you truly cared about me," he said in a low, thunderous tone, "you wouldn't pressure me. And you'd leave Gotham and the world alone."

Tina shook her head sadly. "There are larger issues, larger forces, in play than my feelings for you, David. I believe in the world Ra's al Ghul will make. I only wish you did."

"No world is worth what he's willing to do to achieve it."

"And that," Tina sighed, "is where we part, and will probably never meet."

"There's no 'probably' about it."

Tina ran a hand up and down his shoulder. "Nevertheless, I meant it when I said your love has nothing to fear from me. I also meant it when I said that you do not need to return my feelings. The ones I hold for you are quite enough on their own."

"Are you done yet?" He knew he was being abrupt, even more so than normal, but he had a wild need to be out of her grip, out of her sight.

"Yes. I was on my way to an... assignment, and I had to see you." She stepped backwards, her feet almost gliding over the graveled rooftop in near-perfect silence. "Until we meet again, beloved." She turned and ran, jumping headlong off the edge of the ten story building. Batman had no doubt that the act was not at all self-destructive.

He stared at the empty space for a long moment, calming his heart and mind. Then, finally, he said out loud, to apparently empty space, "She's gone." The moment those words dissipated on the wind, a tall figure descended from the skies. He wore a predominantly blue costume that blended with the red of his cape and boots. His hair was slicked back tightly against his skull, a disguise measure that reminded Batman uncomfortably of Blaine Anderson. The moonlight illuminated the large red "S" on his chest in a hazy glow. His face was open and friendly, smiling as his feet touched solid ground; the smile barely shook as Batman glared. "You're late."

Superman rubbed the back of his neck with a contrite look. "Sorry about that. Got held up in Alaska. Icebreaker got in some trouble." He looked over in the general direction in which Tina had disappeared; Batman had no doubt he was using his X-ray vision to see if she was still nearby, and that he would see nothing regardless. "Want me to follow her?"

Batman shook his head. "If you could, the League of Assassins would've folded long ago."

"How the hell do they do it, anyway? I mean, I can look through walls and hear heartbeats from a mile away! They shouldn't be able to..."

"They shouldn't, but they do. Ra's is very good at what he does. So is everyone who trains under him."

"But not better than you, huh?" Superman's grin grew wider, but he got no reply. Instead, he had to scramble to catch the memory card that Batman tossed nearly in his face.

"Here's the data you were asking for."

Superman turned the card over delicately in his fingers. "And I can use all of this?"

"It's all vetted or a matter of public record. All I did was connect a few dots that you couldn't."

Superman beamed. "Great! Thanks, Dave!"

Batman shook his head; he'd long ago given up on trying to teach him not to use that diminutive, or even first names, for that matter. But these days... Superman was one of the best - the only - friends he had, though he'd never admit it to anyone, least of all the man before him. "You're welcome, Finn."

The Kryptonian tucked the memory card under his belt. "I'd better get going. I've got a story to write." He paused a moment. "Hey, what she said about you having someone in your life..."

"_Goodbye_, Finn."

Superman shrugged, as if expecting the response. "No problem. I just think... Life isn't worth it without love, y'know? I think you should try to make it work. Even if it doesn't... at least you tried."

With that, he launched himself into the sky, leaving Batman's cape swirling in the sudden gust. Silently, he turned and returned his gaze to the city below, to the life surging in the streets below, going about their business in ignorant bliss.

* * *

The cabbie still looked dazed as he pulled up to the gates. He blinked as he looked up at the storied, ivy covered walls surrounding the Karofsky mansion. He turned and looked back at his fare. "You sure this is...?"

Kurt grumbled in impatience. "_Yes_, I'm sure." He almost threw a wad of bills at the cabbie. "Keep the change." Anything to get out of that taxi and its driver's frankly rude stares and questions.

As the cab peeled away, Kurt reached out, tentatively trying the gate. It swung open with only the slightest creak. He stepped onto the grounds, shutting the wrought iron gate behind him. All around him were moss-covered trees, neatly trimmed hedges in various geometric shapes, smooth-cut grass. A large stone fountain burbled merrily as he stepped around it towards the sprawling stone mansion. The solid oak doors seemed to tower over him; Kurt could almost feel history pulse through his hand as it ran over the cold wood. Shaking his head, he reached to his side and firmly pressed a button by the door. He barely heard the muffled sound of a chime within. As he waited, he looked around, his eyes taking in all the telltale signs of a sophisticated security system. _There's the video feed... Well-shielded, too. Hmm, looks like the doors are wired too... Very nice. _But, of course, what else could he expect from the home of David Karofsky?

Soon enough, the double doors opened. A butler with red curly hair stood stiffly and formally on the other side, the same man who'd picked David up outside the restaurant. "Hi," Kurt said cheerfully. "I'm Kurt Hummel. David's expecting me?"

Kurt wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he could've sworn he saw a flash of a smile pass over the butler's face. He blinked; all that he could see now was the same impassive look that could give Batman a run for his money. "Master David is in the lounge. Please come in."

As he followed the butler, Kurt looked about in awe. The wood paneling, the paintings, the sculpture, the suits of armor... It was less a home and more of a museum, filled with untouchable pieces. Kurt's instincts stirred in him, but he tamped them down. It wouldn't make sense to rob David; he was _way_ too high profile. Besides, he was better used as...

Two simultaneous thoughts hit Kurt at the same time; the combined force almost sent him staggering. First: _I don't want to _use_ David._ Second: _When did I start thinking of him as "David"?_ Oh, God. This was dangerous. Way too fucking dangerous, especially since he had no idea where it was all coming from. The smart thing to do was to leave. Right now. Make some excuse and just _go_. Come back when he had time to clear his head, consider whether he should do this at all...

"Kurt! Glad you could make it!"

The so-named Kurt blinked. He hadn't even realized he'd stepped into the lounge until David called out, waving at him cheerfully from a seat by a crackling fireplace. Rubbing his eyes and sighing inwardly, Kurt dragged himself into the room, sitting in the overstuffed chair on the opposite side of the fire from David's. "I'm glad you invited me," he finally managed to say with a tight smile.

"I don't usually do this, especially not on the second date."

"I didn't know you _had_ second dates."

David laughed. "_Touche_. But seriously... I have a good time with you."

Kurt couldn't help but smile, genuinely, at that. "I have a good time with you too."

It was then that the butler stepped back into the room. "Dinner is served."

As at Simone's, the table was intimate and candlelit, only this table was an 18th century English antique that Kurt almost felt guilty for actually eating off of. It was shoved into the middle of an otherwise empty, cavernous dining room, feeling almost like an isolated island in the middle of a sea of shadow. The sun had just set, stars starting to twinkle on the other side of the huge bay window that faced the north.

Kurt had thought that Simone's was the ultimate of discreet and efficient service, but this butler of David's made them look like Grover from _Sesame Street_. Dishes seemed to vanish as soon as they were done, replaced by new, mouthwatering courses by what must have been dark sorcery. Soup, salad, escargot (a new taste for Kurt, and not nearly as bad as he'd feared), all came and went with precision and speed. Through it all, Kurt and David talked, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine they drank. Kurt almost hated to pause to eat, but he had to, especially when the main course, chicken Kiev, came.

"Oh, God! My mouth is exploding!"

David chuckled. "I'm glad you liked it. It was my first time making it, and..."

Kurt's eyes widened. "You? You made this wonderful feast?"

"Well, William did most of it; I just did the chicken. I, uh... wanted to do something myself. Something special."

Kurt blushed. "Thank you."

"I'm just glad you like it. It's not pink or anything, is it? If I gave you salmonella, I'd never forgive myself."

With an imperious look, Kurt stabbed himself another forkful of chicken and butter and defiantly shoved it into his mouth. "There. Now that you've warned me, if I do get sick, it's my fault!" David's laugh was warm, like a good cognac.

The rest of the meal passed like a boat drifting across a still, calm lake. Soon enough, David and Kurt were in the library sharing a pot of coffee. Kurt couldn't help it; his eyes were taking in the treasures on the shelves, first editions and rarities galore. Yet tucked amongst them, as casual as if they belonged there, were cheap paperback and hardcover editions of Stephen King, Isaac Asimov, Scott Turow, and others. David seemed to see what he was thinking, and nodded. "Dad was always a big reader, but he was never a snob about it. Most of those books are his. He just read what he wanted to."

The mention of "Dad" stirred Kurt's heart, for multiple reasons. His gaze drifted towards the fireplace, towards the portrait over it. Dr. Paul Karofsky, one of Gotham's top medicos. His wife, Diane, of a family with a pedigree older than most states. Their son and only child, David, whose smile had to be recreated from photos when he got bored with the posing. David once again followed his gaze; his face seemed to fall, just a little. Kurt caught it. "You still miss them."

"Of course." He sipped at his coffee.

"It's been years since my dad died, and I still think about him every day. I can't imagine what it's like to lose your parents the way you did..." Kurt's gut twisted with a fairly unfamiliar emotion: regret. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

David shook his head. "No, it's okay. I guess we all... deal with things like this in our own way." He looked up at the portrait, as he often did when alone in this room. "I owe them so much, I don't know if I'll ever be able to..." He trailed off at Kurt's serious look.

"You said you appreciated honesty. I'm about to be brutally honest. Do you mind?"

David paused for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Go ahead."

"You don't _owe_ your parents anything. They're dead. They can't repay or appreciate anything you do. I think everyone would be a lot happier if they just lived for themselves, not for other people." Kurt found himself holding his breath, waiting for David's reaction.

When it came, it was low-key, almost a little sad. "You're not saying anything I haven't wondered myself. Sometimes... I'm not sure which would be worse: if dead is dead, or if they were still watching me, what I'm doing with my life." David thought little of what he was saying, what he was telling this man he'd only known for a few weeks. It was as though he were someone else, as though he actually were the David Karofsky he presented the world.

"This is where I find my atheism reassuring, frankly," Kurt said, a shadow of a smile creeping onto his face. "My dad's not suffering in hell for eating shrimp, and I get to live my life without ghosts looking over my shoulder."

"You don't have to believe in souls for that to happen," David muttered, so low Kurt almost didn't catch the words.

They sipped at their coffee in silence for a few moments. Then Kurt, for a reason he'd never fully be able to figure out over the subsequent years, burst out in words: "I don't believe in love at first sight!"

David raised an amused eyebrow. "No?"

Kurt calmed, starting to blush (which caused him even more internal humiliation), but the words were out; he might as well press on. "It's ridiculous, fiction created by greeting card companies and romance novelists. Take us. We've haven't been on even three dates. We hardly know each other. We live the kind of lives that set us apart from other people. It's absurd to think that anyone could fall in love just like _that_ under those kind of circumstances! It's insane!"

"I completely agree," David replied calmly.

"Good! Because it's unrealistic! Idiotic! It's..."

David chuckled. "I think that's enough adjectives."

Kurt got his breathing under control (a vital skill for close-in work), smoothing the front of his suit nervously. "You get my point. It's all just fantasy. There's absolutely no substitute for time - for getting to know someone intimately. None. That's where love comes from, and nowhere else."

"Well, then..." Was it Kurt's imagination, or did David's voice just go hoarse? "I guess I'll have to put aside time in my busy schedule for the next few years."

Kurt almost choked on his coffee. "Um..." he sputtered as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin, trying desperately to keep his cool, debonair attitude. "I..."

"Funny thing is," David continued quietly, "I feel like I know you already. At least a lot better than I should, given, as you said, we've only seen each other three times now. Is that strange?"

_No_. "Maybe a little. But... I suppose it happens. Just don't ask me to believe in reincarnation or alternate universes or anything like that. I think life is what we have, and it's foolish to try to look for something else."

"Again, I completely agree." At some point in this conversation, the two men found themselves sitting on the same couch. Kurt wasn't even going to pretend that he knew how that had happened. David was fidgeting, his hands clasping and squeezing at each other. It was sort of adorable. "Uh... you know, you were right... Most of my dates sort of never get this far..."

"Honestly? Mine either. But it's usually because I'm so busy... You know, career before all..."

"I... hope you make exceptions..."

"Of course. All work and no play and all that." Kurt turned towards David, only to find that he had done the same; the two were now uncomfortably close. "Like I told you at the gala," he finally said breathlessly, "life's too short to not go for what you want."

David's voice was just as soft, just as whispery. "And you're bringing this up now because...?"

"For fair warning." Kurt's hand raised to David's cheek, and their lips locked in a kiss. Kurt didn't have any idea what to expect, but _this_ feeling wasn't anything he would've expected regardless. It was soft, it was loving, it was gentle yet explosive... It was also weirdly familiar, but Kurt had kissed (and left) so many times that it wasn't something he dwelled on. He just let himself get lost in the contact, in the flesh, in the _now_.

When they finally separated (only to breathe, it seemed), David looked stunned; apparently he'd been just as overwhelmed. Kurt smiled, and was about to speak when the buzz of his cell phone completely shattered the mood.

It was three quick pulses, a signal reserved exclusively for the best of his professional contacts. David had apparently heard the buzzing; his head was cocked slightly in something approaching curiosity. David... phone... David... phone...

_Oh, what am I thinking? David will still be here tomorrow, and the night after that. He promised. Whatever this is might not be. _Despite the pristine logic, Kurt's heart still wrenched in his chest as he stood and answered his phone. "This better be good, Sandi. I told you I'd be busy tonight."

"It's good," the rough, masculine voice on the other end promised. "The Bast statues are on the move."

"Ugh, seriously?" Kurt groaned dramatically, feeling that warm rush of pride that usually accompanied one of his stellar performances. "But we just bought that carpeting yesterday!"

"If you want a chance at 'em, this is your best bet. I suggest intercepting 'em on Highway 106, exit 97. But you'd better start prep now, or you'll miss it."

"Fine, fine... I suppose we can't upset the old dear, can we? I'll be right in." He switched off the phone and turned to David with an expression of genuine regret. "I'm _so_ sorry..."

"Client?" asked David, his voice heavy. The sound dropped Kurt's spirits even more, and a voice was starting to nag, ever so softly: _are you _sure_ you're making the right decision?_ Kurt hushed it as best he could.

"A big one. I can't afford to lose her, not if I want to get her friends as clients." As David rose, Kurt grabbed onto the other man's hands, which were surprisingly stiff. "I promise, next time you will have my _exclusive_ attention."

David smiled weakly. "I'm going to hold you to that."

He offered the services of his car and William, his butler, to take him back to the city, an offer that was gratefully accepted. As Kurt made his hurried but sorrowful goodbyes, Kurt couldn't help but think that David was suddenly a little distant; he seemed distracted, and their farewell kiss felt perfunctory. But then, who could blame him, with this sudden departure with such unfortunate timing? Kurt resolved to make it up to him next time.

As his mind started planning the heist, he found his thoughts drifting, slowly but steadily, back towards the mansion he was leaving, back towards David. He shoved those thoughts aside in annoyance, conscious even as he did so that he was making a decision just by the act, a decision he wasn't even sure, deep down, he wanted to make...

* * *

As the car vanished, David's heart pounded. It didn't mean anything. He dealt in facts and deduction, not intuition and _feelings_, not when it came to something this important.

But there was no denying it. Not even his mind could divine a way out of this.

He sprinted to the grandfather clock, then turned its hands to 10:47 pm. With a barely perceptible click, the secret door swung open. If he'd realized he hadn't even closed the door completely behind him as he tore down the stairs, he would've been very worried about himself. As it was, it took him seconds (much too long) to sit in front of the computer and open a comm channel.

Quinn's face appeared immediately, much to his relief. She smiled. "Hey, David. I didn't expect to see you on tonight. So how was your hot date?"

"I need you to do a search."

"Whoa, that good, huh?"

"Just do the search, please."

He didn't know what it was about his face that turned Quinn serious at the moment. If he'd asked, she would've said she saw not a hint of the grim seriousness she was used to, that she saw in his eyes desperation, and not a little fear, which in turn scared her a little. But he didn't ask, so she didn't say. "What do you need?"

"I need you to dig in deep; that's why I'm asking you instead of doing it myself. I want you to look for other crimes with Catwoman's M.O. in New York, Chicago, Cincinnati, and Cleveland in the past fifteen years."

"Got it." Quinn did a double take. "Cincinnati? Cleveland? Do you know something I don't?"

"Let me know what you find out as soon as possible." He cut off the connection before she could question him further, before letting his face fall into one hand as dread shot through him.

This was crazy. He dealt with facts, not feelings. There wasn't a single shred of real evidence.

But he knew. He could never forget how Catwoman's lips felt, the electricity, the passion. It was a complex mish-mash of emotions and energy that couldn't possibly be duplicated with anyone else.

Yet they were the same things he felt when he kissed Kurt Hummel.

**AN: Yes, the cameo in this chapter is a bit pointless. But the next chapter will be a short interlude showing you why I'm not using certain major Glee characters elsewhere in this 'fic, and where they are. I felt they were just too appropriate/good NOT to show, at least a little...**


	7. A Brief Interlude: Metropolis

**AN: Just a short diversion to peek in on a few Glee characters who won't be appearing in Gotham, just because I wanted to it was too good to ignore (the way I envisioned it, anyway). Sorry for the diversion; we'll be back in Gotham next time, promise!**

**Bit o' Finchel follows.  
**

One of Finn Hudson's favorite activities was just flying over Metropolis on an average day. The hustle and bustle of everyday life below, the murmurs of a hundred thousand conversations, the small mundane details of a million different lives all going on below... It was exhilarating. It reminded him of the infinite variety of small, everyday joys and pleasures that made life so wonderful.

"People will always surprise you, Finn," his mother had told him once, "if you just keep your eyes open. It's always amazing, their capacity to love and grow and make the world better." Carole Hudson was a wise woman; Finn had found her every word true.

He made a mental note to visit Smallville after work; it was just a short flight away, after all. The death of Christopher - his father, her husband - had left the Hudson farm a lot quieter than it once was, and he knew his mom always appreciated him stopping by. Maybe he'd bring some eclairs from Paris, or just take her down to Jerry's Diner on Main for a chocolate egg cream...

By the time he arrived at the Daily Planet building, streaking onto the roof too fast to be seen by security cameras, his plan was in place. Being Superman was cool and all, but he wasn't raised to be a big, flashy hero. Some of the best times in his life (he mused as he donned a suit, shook out his hair to its normal ragged state, and put on his glasses) had come when he was just plain old Finn Hudson. Sure, Superman had lifesaving rescues and standing tall in the face of danger, and that was great for everyone, but there was something to be said for the quiet moments too: prom, graduation from journalism school, his first kiss.

Finn jogged down the stairs and emerged into the bustling halls of the Planet, his mind back on his more mundane work. The memory card Dave had given him was all he had promised: the information within was the backup he needed to finally publish his expose. Maybe it would finally spur some action, get Metropolis Sound cleaned up and its exploiters punished. See, there was another nugget of wisdom from Mom: "Superman may be able to stop trains with his bare hands, but Finn Hudson... He can be _so_ much more powerful." After all, what good were superpowers in the courtroom or legislative chamber? The power of the word - Microsoft Word - could penetrate the stubborn cracks and crevices that even X-ray vision couldn't touch. And hey, he could also...

"FINN HUDSON!" He nearly jumped. Strength of a hundred men, capable of flying around the world in minutes, and _she_ could still get to him like that. Like a crackling storm front rolling across the Midwest plains, Rachel Berry swept thunderously across the newsroom. Just the sound of her voice sent some of the newbies cowering, and for good reason. Those who called her "intense" missed reality by several degrees. When Finn first met her, he sometimes wondered if she realized that every other word out of her mouth seemed to be "Pulitzer." She strode towards him with the force and confidence of a woman who knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing, down to the nth degree. "Finally, you've shown up! You have a _deadline_ to meet, you know!"

"Sheesh, calm down, Rach. I have it."

Her eyes began to sparkle in that way he'd fallen in love with all those years ago. "You have it?" She bounced on her feet like a schoolgirl, oh-so-briefly breaking her carefully crafted image. "I knew he'd come through for you. We'll take him out to dinner next time we're in Gotham." Her voice dropped to a whisper at this last word.

The day Finn had told Rachel his secret was one of the most terrifying of his life. He was putting himself out there, confiding in another person, in a way he hadn't done in years. It was a quiet evening in her apartment (her familiar ground, recommended by his mother). He'd proven the truth of his words easily enough. All there was to do was wait for her reaction. Her face was stony, impassive; Finn's heart was trying to climb out his throat. Then came... the tears.

"Oh, God," she whispered, "I am so stupid."

Finn's jaw dropped. "W-what?"

"I'm supposed to be a _journalist_, an investigator. And I couldn't even tell that one of my own coworkers is Superman. I... I'm a shame to my profession. I shouldn't even be..."

"Hey, hey..." Finn said soothingly, rubbing her arm. "I worked a lot to be able to keep that part of my life hidden."

"I still should've...!" she burst out. "Especially with all the time I've spent watching you..."

"Yeah, you're one of Superman's favorite reporters..." he said with a smile.

"No, not Superman! You. Finn."

For the second time in as many minutes, Finn's world stopped. "Uh... what?"

"I... think I love you, you idiot! Isn't that why you're telling me this now? Because you love me?"

Finn froze. Why _was_ he telling her? He'd been so focused on "how" that it hadn't even entered his mind. His mother hadn't even asked that rather obvious question; just _nodded_ knowingly the way she tended to do. "I... I just thought..."

Rachel's voice turned gentle. "This is the biggest secret in the world, Finn. Your secret. And you're telling me."

"Y-yeah..."

"Because...?"

"I trust you," he said automatically.

She nodded. "And?"

"You're one of my best friends here..."

"And?"

"And I lo..." His mouth hung open, the syllable unfinished. _Holy shit. I do. I _do_ love her._

Rachel nodded with a small, satisfied smile. "I guess I haven't completely lost my journalistic instincts after all."

As was typical of Rachel Berry, _she_ was the one to kiss _him._ Not that he minded. Since then, he felt closer to her than anyone apart from his parents, an oasis of comfort and trust in a hurried, breakneck world, a connection to the entirely human life of his youth that he still sometimes missed.

"Hudson! Berry!" The roar emanating from the editor-in-chief's office dropped Finn out of his memories. The two whirled at the sound. "I need to see you both now! Ben Israel, you too!"

Jacob ben Israel, a Planet photographer and Web guru, popped up from his cubicle like a gopher. He shuffled past Finn and Rachel at top speed, his camera unnecessarily at the ready in his hands.

Rachel's mouth twisted in wry amusement. "She really should get an intercom or something."

Finn shrugged. "I said that once. She said she liked being 'direct.'" The two followed Jacob, the backs of their hands brushing deliberately against each other.

Shannon Beiste waved the three in, unlit cigar clenched between her teeth. Her desk, as usual, was piled with stacks of paper wedged between a desktop computer monitor and a laptop. Though she often lamented the state of the newspaper industry (still, she took pride that the Planet was one of the few papers in the country often on pundits' "most likely to survive the Internet" list, alongside such luminaries as the Times, the Wall Street Journal, and USA Today), she still took up modern tools with gusto, turning the Daily Planet's Web presence into one of the most read news sites in the country. Of course, being the prime pump for breaking news on all things Superman didn't hurt either.

"Shut the door." Finn did so. "First of all, great job on the Metallo story, all of you. Our sales for that day were up 8% over normal."

"Thanks, Chief!" Jacob quickly paled, the effect emphasized by Beiste's glare. "I mean... Editor... Miss... Ms. Beiste," he stammered.

"I'm glad you approve of our work," Rachel said in a clipped voice. "Although I get the feeling that's not all...?"

"No. I got a letter from our favorite legal department at SueCorp." She picked up a manila envelope and drew out a clean white sheet of paper covered in type.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Great. What does Sylvester want now?"

"I think," Finn cut in, "it probably has something to do with my story on the Millenium Square deal?"

"_Our_ story," Rachel corrected, though in an under-her-breath volume that indicated more instinct than thought in her words.

"Right. As for what she wants... The usual, probably," Beiste replied. "Let's see..." Her eyes darted as they skimmed over the words. "Mm hmm. 'Libel...' 'Beloved inventor and financier...' 'Unfounded allegations...' Ah, here we go: 'legal action may be undertaken.'"

Finn pushed his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose. "And what are you going to say to her...?"

"_My_ usual." Beiste casually turned and fed the letter into a paper shredder. She turned back to the assembled journalists as a sharp buzzing sound pierced the room for a few moments.

"Not that we don't appreciate it..." Finn began, "but how long can you keep doing that? Sylvester's not going to let us slide forever."

Rachel gasped at him in something akin to betrayal. "Finn Hudson! We are _journalists_! It is our responsibility and duty to the public to uncover the truth wherever it lies, no matter what the consequence!"

"I dunno," Jacob said, "she scares me. That chauffeur of hers, too. I mean, she looks cute and small, but I hear she's really good in a fight. I mean _really_ good." He shuddered.

"You're both right." The group turned towards Beiste with similarly startled looks. "There are consequences to poking at Sue Sylvester and SueCorp. We all know that, and we can't deny it. At the same time, as Berry said, it's our duty. Sylvester may have the mayor and half the country's governments under her thumb, but she doesn't own us. And I think that makes her _real_ mad." She visibly inhaled, clasping her hands in front of her on the desk. "All I'm saying is... be careful. The Planet is going to support you every step of the way, but we all know how dangerous Sylvester is. I want the news, but I'd much rather have my reporters in one piece."

Rachel nodded. "You don't have to worry about us, Shannon."

"But I do anyway." There was a brief pause. "Well? What're you just standing around for? You two have deadlines to meet, and ben Israel has stories to post. Move!" The three hurried out of the office. Finn and Rachel were silent until they got to their desks.

"How is he?" Rachel asked in a quiet voice.

It took Finn a moment to realize who she was talking about. "The usual," he said slowly. "I'm kinda worried about him, though. He just... doesn't see things the way I do. Makes me feel like he's... I dunno... destroying himself, and he won't let anyone help him."

Rachel seemed to ponder this for a moment. "You can't make anyone accept help, least of all someone like him. All you can do is be there for him, be his friend, and be prepared to step in if something serious happens."

"That's the problem, though... He's always so able to take care of himself... or at least make it look like he can. What if... What?" Finn frowned at the weird look on Rachel's face.

"You're so compassionate," she said softly. "You care _so_ much."

Fin couldn't help but smile a little. "So does Dave. We wouldn't be doing what we do if we didn't. He's a good guy. I just wish..." He stopped at the warm feel of Rachel's hand on his shoulder.

"You can't save the world." Finn almost laughed; as Superman, he _had_ saved the world, several times, in fact. But he knew what she meant. "Like I said, just be there for him. I'm sure he appreciates it, even if he doesn't show it."

Finn sighed. "I hope you're right. I..."

"Ms. Berry!" Jacob ben Israel seemed to pop up out of nowhere, camera still in hand. Rachel tore her hand from Finn's shoulder, startled. "Sorry... did I interrupt?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, I have these new photos of Superman from last week. I thought they'd go well with your story...?"

Rachel took the camera and went through the digital frames, Finn looking over her shoulder. "This one," she finally said firmly, pointing at the screen.

Jacob took the camera back with a grin. "Will do!" He looked at the image, shaking his head. "Geez, Superman's just such a swell guy. What do you think he does in his free time? Think he has a girlfriend?"

Rachel shook her head. "We're journalists, Jacob, not gossip reporters. Besides..." She looked up at Finn, her eyes sparkling. "I'm sure someone cares about him very much." She winked.

Unseen by the rest of the room, Finn's hand, a hand that could crush boulders bare, slid around Rachel's and gently squeezed.


	8. Autophobia

**AN:** ***Insert rant on losing text AGAIN because of a sudden navigation off the page here* Damn trackpad mouse. I really gotta save more often... :P At least it's not as much this time, which is good, considering this is the longest chapter yet ****(and I did adjust the mouse's behavior so this shouldn't happen again)**. It's still goddamn demoralizing.  


Batman stumbled through the dark. It was wrong - everything was wrong. The walls of the buildings seemed to bend towards him, the streets were cobblestone instead of pavement, and the night sky... It was black, pitch black, deeper than ink. A fact was struggling to make its way through his mind as he staggered down the empty sidewalks, but it refused to come. His head felt like lead, his muscles like stone.

There! A thin sheet of light, pouring out from a door ahead. Thankful for even this small break in the darkness, his gauntleted hand closed over the heavy doorknob. One twist, and the door started to creak open.

On the other side, a cheerfully lit bedroom... A very familiar one, at that. _No... It's not... It can't be..._ Again, that fact tried to force his way through, but it pounded futilely at the haze of shock and horror filling Batman's consciousness.

"Almost ready, dear?" Dr. Paul Karofsky murmured; he sat by the crackling fire in the fireplace, turning a glass over in one hand as a woman in a long black evening dress sat at the vanity, putting on a pair of glittering diamond earrings.

"Almost."

Batman tried to call out to them, but his throat locked; all he could get out was a hoarse whisper. "Dad... Mom..."

"Is David ready?" Paul asked casually as he sipped at his glass, filled with an amber colored liquid.

"He's been ready for the past hour. He's practically bouncing on his heels." Diane Karofsky turned towards her husband, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "You just had to get him into your precious old films, didn't you? I mean, really, Zorro? What child watches Zorro these days?"

"Zorro is a classic," the doctor replied in an exaggeratedly lofty tone. "I wish more kids had fathers of refined bearing willing to pass strong ideas of quality along to the next generation."

Diane giggled. As she turned back to her vanity mirror, dabbing at her lipstick, a serious look came over her face. "Paul... Could you talk to David for me?"

"About what?"

"Remember that he went to his friend Bryan's house this afternoon? When I picked him up, he was... holding Bryan's hand. And on the way home, he said they were going to get married."

Paul chuckled. "Heh. And?"

Diane turned to her husband with a frown. "'And'? Paul, you can't tell me this doesn't concern you."

"What should concern...? Oh." Paul snapped his head back, draining his glass. "Please, Diane, let's not go over this again..."

"I'm worried about him, Paul, I really am."

"And I keep telling you it's nothing to be worried about."

"What do you think will happen when people find out..."

"We don't know there's anything for them _to_ find out! He's just a kid!" Paul's face twisted in anger; from the doorway, Batman's stomach turned and his body tensed. This wasn't like his daddy, not at all. "And even if he is, so what? Are you concerned that your family name is going to suffer for being associated with..."

"How dare you!" Diane slammed her hairbrush onto the vanity. "I'm worried about _him_, our son! What kind of life can he have as a homosexual?"

"A damn good one, as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh, for God's sake, Paul, you've seen AIDS with your own eyes! How can that be...?"

"Enough!" Paul roared, leaping from his chair. He rubbed his face with both hands, the trembling in his body slowly subsiding. "David's going to be here any moment. Let's forget about this, go out and see a movie as a _loving_ family."

"Fine. We'll talk about this later," Diane replied coolly. Then she turned and stared directly at Batman. His heart squeezed; that hadn't happened the first time, the time he accidentally spied on his parents in their room, the night they... "That's right, David," she said. "I died cursing your sexuality. Why couldn't you be a good boy for your mommy? Why?"

"Our last night alive, and we fought," his father added. "Over _you_. Maybe if you weren't such a disappointment, maybe we would've been paying attention when we left the movie. Maybe we wouldn't have died. And look at you now." He shook his head. "What kind of life is this? I'm ashamed of you..."

Finally, his muscles moved; Batman slammed the door shut, cutting off Paul Karofsky's words. He stumbled off, his eyes stinging. There were no tears, though - of course there were no tears. He groped blindly in the dark, his costume melting into the shadows as if they were swallowing him whole. Another line of light, emanating from under a closed door, stabbed through the night ahead. Desperately, he staggered towards the door and tore it open.

The cheering was deafening. The circus audience was pumped, ready for wonder, for awe, for a spectacular night of entertainment.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the ringmaster roared from the center of the circle. "Direct your eyes above my head and gaze in wonder at the aerial acrobatics of Sam, Stacie, and Stevie, the one, the only, the world-famous Flying Evanses!"

Batman's head rose in horror. He tried to run in, stop them, but his legs wouldn't move. He tried to shout, to warn them, but his voice was a mere croak, drowned out in the accolades of the crowd. He could only watched as three leotard-clad youths, all blonde and slim, bowed to the crowd from their trapeze perch. The sole girl grabbed onto one of the trapeze bars and started swinging. As she flipped end over end to reach the other side, the younger boy followed, showing off his own astonishing acrobatics. Batman once more tried to shout, to scream, but again his throat closed, his tongue dry.

It all happened so fast, just like the first time: the tinny snapping sounds overhead. The screams. Stevie and Stacie plunging towards the ground. Sam still spotlit on the trapeze perch, his face pale and anguished. Batman remembered standing in his seat the first time, thinking for a bare instant about vaulting over his fellow audience members and trying to reach, to catch, the two falling children. The sound their bodies made when they hit the earth still rang in his ears.

The tent was dead silent. A second spotlight turned on, focusing on the two shattered corpses. Above them, Sam grabbed a microphone (out of where?) and began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said in a calm, even voice. "My brother and sister are dead. The only family I had left after our parents died, my responsibility. And they have been murdered. By whom, you ask? By _him_." He pointed directly towards Batman. Every single audience member turned in their seat towards him, glaring in judgment.

"I never wanted to be some superhero. I never wanted to be drawn into his world," Sam continued. "But I was, because he just couldn't go it alone like a good little boy. No, he needed a _friend_, and I was stupid enough to try to be one. But I was just a kid then, just sixteen. _He_ was my age too, but he should've known better. He _knew_ he was poison. He _knew_ he killed everyone he loved. But he _still_ made me his friend, because he was so goddamn _fucking_ lonely! And look what he did." Now Sam stared directly into Batman's eyes, his gaze seething with grief and hatred. "Look at what you did!" he shrieked, pointing at Stevie and Stacie's bodies. "_Look!_"

It was only with superhuman effort that Batman slammed the door shut, cutting off the condemnation, the rage. Batman sank to his knees. This time, he couldn't stop the tears. "God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"Tsk tsk." He looked up; even through the veil of his watery eyes, he couldn't mistake the firm, thin legs, the curved body. Catwoman... Kurt Hummel... stood before him, dressed in his form-fitting jumpsuit, his mask off. "Pathetic. If I'd known, I wouldn't have even gone out on that first date."

"Kurt..." His voice was a mewl, a mere whisper, barely audible. Pathetic indeed.

"What kind of coward are you?" Kurt sneered. "You find out who I really am, and all of the sudden, I'm radioactive! You put me off, make excuses, leave me hanging..."

"Y-you're a criminal," Batman rasped. "You're what I've spent my entire life fighting..."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Oh, give it up, David. We both know what this is about. With me, you have to choose between Batman and David Karofsky... and you're desperately afraid that you'll end up choosing the latter." Batman's head bowed, his forehead resting against the cold, hard pavement. "Then you'd be such a disappointment to mommy and daddy. Oh, wait, you already are, so what's the point?" He heard, rather than saw, Kurt cluck his tongue. "I wonder what you're seeing? It's probably pretty interesting."

_Wait..._ That wasn't Kurt's voice. It tickled his memory, pushing at the haze over his mind.

"Not that it matters. I'd be an idiot not to take advantage of this. Nice try, Batman, but this time, you _finally _lose."

There it was. The fact that was pushing at him, breaking through with the force of a Howitzer shell. He remembered: tracking his quarry to an abandoned apartment building. Finding the latest guinea pig, a kidnapped prostitute, locked in a cage. Freeing her, only to hear her shouted warning too late as the gas billowed into the room. Giving her his gas mask and telling her to run for her life. Realizing that the antidote he'd taken earlier was having little effect, that _he_ must've come up with a new strain of his gas...

Kurt's form shimmered, as did his surroundings. He willed his brain into focus. Streets became walls and floors. Kurt gained pounds, inches, his jumpsuit turning into burlap and straw, his face turning into a mask made out of a ripped bag.

Kurt... No, _Goolsby_, ex-Professor Dustin Goolsby... took no notice of Batman's shifting mental state. He simply prattled on as he casually drew a hypodermic needle from his satchel. "I gotta tell you, you led me on a pretty good chase. But the best man won. I knew he would. Don't worry, though - you won't die _right_ now. I'm going to inject as much concentrated fear toxin as I can right into your veins, and see just how long it takes for you to die and what kills you. I'm betting heart attack, but stroke and self-disembowelment aren't out of the question."

Such was the Scarecrow's M.O. Handsome and arrogant, possessed of a keen mind for psychology, obsessed with lording over others through fear. Fired from Gotham University for his unorthodox experiments and teaching methods, he only found that he had freer reign to grind his "inferiors" into the dirt the way he wanted.

Batman blinked, trying to drive the taunting voices and the crushing weight of his own emotions out of his mind as the Scarecrow approached, syringe in hand. "This'll hurt for a moment. Okay, fine, it'll hurt for the rest of your short life..."

Batman's fist lashed out so quickly that the Scarecrow was unconscious before he even completed his step forward. The former professor collapsed to the floor, the syringe rolling away into a darkened corner. The Dark Knight drew himself to his feet, trying to ignore the screams and shouts and faces he knew were only in his head. But they were surrounding him, pushing at him, telling him things that he didn't want to hear but that he knew were true...

_Stop it!_ He stumbled onto the fire escape, leaning against the railing, gulping down the cold night air. It wasn't helping. He was struck by another wave of dizziness, sending him tumbling over and crashing to the ground two stories below.

_Ha! You deserve that, and more! _the voices taunted. Batman tried to stand, but slammed painfully back onto his knees. He was completely disoriented, without an idea of where he was, let alone where the Batmobile was. His communicator was broken, probably by the Scarecrow at some point in the depths of the hallucinations.

The Scarecrow would be out cold for hours; Goolsby always did have a bit of a glass jaw. He would keep until that prostitute called the police.

But who knew how long that would take; it was a distinct possibility that no one would come until morning. By then, Batman knew, without treatment... he'd probably already be dead.

* * *

_What the hell are you doing, Hummel?_ Kurt chided himself as he stalked the rooftops of Gotham. It was the "bad" part of town - but then, he was getting the distinct impression that _most_ of Gotham was the "bad part of town." There was certainly no sparkling jewels or cash to be had here, unless he was stupid enough to take from the various drug lords and medium-time gangsters that made this area home. So why was he here?

The answer was all too clear: Batman. There was a connection there, a spark; he _knew_ it to be so, knew it was mutual. Unfortunately, he was also pretty sure his little secret was still hidden, and equally sure that it would be a _huge _mistake to make Batman angry. And if experience was any indicator, a gender reveal now would certainly... upset him. Kurt shook his head ruefully; for all the times he reminded people, rather snottily, that he was a man, and no less of one for being gay, he sure made a good woman.

That left David. He, at least, knew Kurt's gender, and again he was pretty sure of a mutual attraction there. But the two hadn't seen each other since that unfortunately aborted date at the mansion. "I'm really sorry. Business. You know how it is with multinational corporations." Kurt didn't, of course, and had to laugh a little at the thoughtlessness of David's naivete. Hopefully, he'd have some time to wean the man away from some of his more shallow personality traits.

But until then, what other game in town was there but Batman? Kurt wasn't used to pursuing; he did quite enough of being the pursued, thank you very much. So this was thrilling in its own way, the chase applied to a man rather than a bauble - more so, in fact, since this quarry could run on its own. Of course, that raised the issue of what he would _do_ when and if he caught up to his prey. If it couldn't work (and all indications were that it couldn't, for so many reasons they were hard to count), then the least he could do was let Batman down gently (even if the thought was so absurd it actually made Kurt laugh out loud). Or perhaps figure out if there was some way to exploit the "relationship"... Even if it caused a sharp, painful guilty feeling that Kurt was definitely not used to having to deal with.

One of Kurt's contacts had heard rumors of the Scarecrow making a home in the area - thus Kurt's hunting grounds. The Scarecrow was a major player amongst Gotham's lunatics, so Batman would inevitably be drawn here; hell, he might already be there. If nothing else, this could be a valuable opportunity to study the man's style and tactics. If he was lucky, maybe he'd even...

"Oh God oh God oh God..." The somewhat muffled voice below was female, panting and desperate. Normally, Kurt wouldn't have given it a second thought, but given the circumstances, the knowledge of just _who _was out there, he peeked over the edge of the rooftop. A woman - a working girl, from the look of her clothing - was running down the street, wide-eyed and desperate. She pressed a plastic gas mask to her face (thus the muffled voice), which was twisted in panic.

Kurt's instincts were roused. Perhaps it was the fear, way beyond anything he'd ever seen between a hooker and any john or pimp. Perhaps it was his foreknowledge of the kind of men who were stalking the area. Perhaps it was that gas mask, too fancy to be part of any average person's possessions. But whatever it was, Kurt had made a fine living obeying his instincts. He turned on his voice changer and dove over the edge of the building.

With feline grace, he landed on a ledge by his hands, launching himself off of that and towards a nearby streetlight. Grabbing onto the part parallel to the ground, he swung around it, retaining his momentum enough to reach a fire escape on the opposite end of the street. From there it was a simple jump towards a wall, a bounce off said wall, and a second jump off a closed Dumpster to bring him face to face with the fleeing hooker. She shrieked.

"Shh! I'm here to help!" The female voice seemed to actually calm her, but only slightly. "I'm a friend of Batman. He gave you that, didn't he?" He pointed at the gas mask.

The hooker seemed to gather her nerve; she nodded nervously. "That... creep in the straw mask kidnapped me. Batman saved me, but the gas..."

Kurt's stomach dropped. Everyone knew what kind of nasty shit the Scarecrow could come up with. And Batman gave _her_ his mask, leaving himself vulnerable... What kind of man would...? He shook his head, which caused the hooker to stare in confusion. "Where is he? Do you remember?"

"Y-yeah. Big building, corner of Finger and O'Neil."

"Okay. He told you to call the cops, right?" She nodded. "Do it. There's a pay phone on the next block that way. Make sure they know the Scarecrow is involved."

"But what about...?"

"I'll find Batman. Now go!" He watched her run for only a moment before Kurt launched into a sprint. A kind of desperation he'd never felt before poured adrenaline into his veins. The streets were quiet, apparently uninhabited, even by society's most desperate - very unusual, as if even the homeless and addicted knew that this was a night to stay indoors and out of sight. The only sound that reached Kurt's ears were his own breaths, his own heartbeat.

After running a marathon, he was finally at the corner of Finger and O'Neil. He looked up at the tallest building, a ratty structure four stories tall. The night was silent, save for the distant roar of traffic and the skittering of mice in dark corners. Kurt began to wonder if he'd missed the fun when he heard the voice emanating from the nearby alley. "Please... don't... I'm so... I'm so sorry..."

Kurt cautiously stepped into the gloom. Slumped against a wall, apparently only barely keeping himself standing by force of sheer will, was Batman. His body was rigid with tension, trembling, his lip quivering with emotion that Kurt almost hadn't thought him capable of. Kurt tensed; people approached, dealt with, fear in all sorts of ways. He knew that better than anyone. One wrong move, and Batman could lash out violently; Kurt was certain that he did _not_ want to see that happen.

His nervousness congealed in his throat; he coughed. Batman's head jerked up, his eyes widening. "No... You're not real. You're just... part of the gas. Just... just stay away..."

"N-no," Kurt replied as calmly as he could. "I'm real. I want to help..." He took a step forward.

"Don't!" Kurt obeyed. "I... it's hard to tell... what's real..."

"Okay, I'm going to reach out and touch you. Very slowly. If you want me to stop, tell me." Gently, as if reaching out to an unfamiliar dog, Kurt extended a hand. Batman cowered, but otherwise didn't move, his gaze fixed on the outstretched arm. Inch by painful inch, Kurt moved forward, looking for the slightest sign of panic, the least tensing of muscles that could herald a very painful retaliation. There was nothing; he was too wrapped up in the moment to even consider the significance of that. As his fingertips brushed Batman's arm, the other man shook visibly, but otherwise did not move. The only indication of a reaction was his eyes, blinking rapidly, as if just holding still was requiring an immense force of will.

The hesitant contact slowly became firmer, Kurt's fingers gently closing around Batman's arm. The grip moved down to his wrist, then wrapped around his hand. Something there seemed to trigger something in Batman; his hand closed around Kurt's, almost engulfing it in black leather. Kurt gulped, willing his heart to stop pounding. After all, he could feel the emotion through their gloves, through their skin; it was born of desperation, of utter terror.

"You are real..." the other man rasped.

Kurt nodded. "I can help you. Where's your Batmobile...?"

"I... I can't remember... My head, it's..."

"I don't think you want to go to a hospital, but I'll take you there if I have to. I won't let you die." He was surprised at how firm his voice was, how certain he was that his actions would follow his words. Yes, if he had to save this man's life, he'd give up both their secrets, if he had to. _God, am I going soft? Why...?_

"C-corner... of... 5th and Broadway..." Batman's free hand rose, pointing shakily towards the south. "Someone there... Please... take me..."

"Okay. Let's go." Slinging Batman's arm over his shoulder, he began to painstakingly lead Batman down the alley. Kurt, for all his agility and wiry strength, was not a very large man, and Batman obviously was; the difference in weight staggered him for a moment. But some inner determination, it seemed, kept him going; after a block and a half, he hardly noticed the burden. His ears, his senses, were tuned on Batman and Batman alone, making sure he was still breathing. Kurt found himself thanking all the nonexistent gods that the streets were as empty as they were; he shuddered even considering having to defend them both against vengeful gang members or, God forbid, someone like the Joker.

As they walked, Batman's mutterings never ceased, although they did break occasionally in sobs or exclamations that wrenched Kurt's heart even more. About half a block from their destination, he spat out words louder than ever. "Dad! Mom! Please don't go!"

Kurt stopped dead. Batman's voice had rung out clearly, without his usual, artificial deepness and gruffness. Without that disguise, it sounded very different... and _very_ familiar.

Suddenly feeling weak, he quickly led Batman into the mouth of a nearby alley before he dropped him entirely, leaning both of them against the wall to rest, to gather his breath, to think. He knew that voice. There was no mistaking it. He looked up at the cowled man next to him, still insensible from inner demons only he could see. Kurt knew this was a turning point. He had a decision to make, one that would certainly haunt him for the rest of his life no matter what he chose. Kurt groaned inwardly; he'd come to Gotham to make some money, have some fun, and relax, not... not this. He swallowed.

With violently shaking hands, hands that had defused complex alarms and the most intricate of locks without a twitch, he reached for Batman's cowl. The larger man showed no reaction whatsoever. Closing his eyes for a moment, praying to the distant graves of his family to give him strength for the future, he lifted it.

He'd _known_ what he would see there, yet he wasn't _certain_. He was now.

Looking wildly about him for nonexistent watchers, Kurt pulled the cowl back down; Batman, for his part, showed no sign that he was aware of what had happened in those moments. Kurt rubbed his temples, sighing. _God, life, thank you for giving me yet another reason to hate you. _Straightening his back once more, he lifted Batman back onto his aching shoulder and continued their trek. "Almost there," he said in an artificially light tone. He got no reply.

The rusty street signs above read "Fifth Avenue" and "Broadway." Kurt suddenly realized that he had no idea what destination Batman had in mind. A quick glance told him that he was in no condition to clarify. He looked about: abandoned storefront, darkened tenement, decrepit movie theater... _Ah_.

It was the single burning light not shut behind tightly drawn curtains or two-by-fours, shining from the front windows of a walk-up, the door bearing a prominent plastic-coated sign. As Kurt and Batman approached, the former confirmed the words he thought he could read from a distance: "Emma Pillsbury, M.D."

With his destination within touching distance, the load of the muscled vigilante on his shoulder suddenly increased a thousandfold. Kurt almost dragged Batman up the stairs, then jabbed at the doorbell violently.

He heard no bell within, no movement. Kurt's heart stung; it _was_ late, and the lights could've just been to discourage drug-seekers. What if no one was in? What if...?

But there! On the other side of the door... footfalls on stairs, the shuffling of shoes. The peephole on the door blacked out for a moment. Finally, the door creaked open. On the other side stood a woman with short-cut red hair, wearing a white coat over a casual blouse and slacks. She wore standard medical gloves, her wide blue eyes quickly taking in the two figures on her doorstep. When she spoke, it was with a soft, gentle, yet commanding voice. "Bring him in."

Kurt wanted to question her, question _this_, her apparent knowledge and calm, but knew this was not the time. He immediately obeyed, finding himself in a cheerful, brightly lit foyer, its walls decorated with prints of classic art (a couple of which he'd stolen at one point) and lined with comfortable couches and chairs. "This way," the doctor said, gesturing towards an open door. On the other side was a standard doctor's examination room, filled with the various tools of the trade, including a bed. Dr. Pillsbury helped Kurt get Batman onto the table, which the aching young man was much grateful for.

"Scarecrow," Kurt panted, suddenly remembering that he hadn't checked to make sure his voice changer was on (which it was).

The doctor apparently needed no further explanation. She immediately went to a framed eye chart on the wall and took it down, revealing a safe. Kurt's expert eye immediately recognized it as a SecurGuard (a subsidiary of Karofsky Enterprises) X-10000, a top of the line electronic model that even he would've needed at least half an hour to break into. If it weren't for the wealthy vigilante lying just a foot away, he would've wondered what such an expensive piece of hardware was doing in the possession of a doctor in the slums.

He watched as Dr. Pillsbury rapidly tapped out a code into the safe's keypad. With a whir and a click, the locks disengaged. She swung the door open, revealing racks full of syringes and bottles. Without a pause to read the cramped typed labels, she snatched one of the syringes out and, after a swab, injected its contents into Batman's arm. His muttering and glassy look did not cease, or even slow. "It needs a minute to take effect - maybe longer, if it's fighting a new formulation," Pillsbury said without even waiting for the question.

Before Kurt could say anything, the doctor went to her phone and dialed a number. After a brief pause, she said "Code one" into the receiver and hung up immediately. Finally, she turned towards Kurt. "You looked," she said. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Kurt opened his mouth, unsure what to say, knowing at the same time that the very fact of his uncertainty was an answer in of itself.

"I don't know what you're going to do with that information," Dr. Pillsbury continued, "but I won't let you use it to hurt him. And I can take care of myself." To many, the last sentence would've seemed like a non sequitur, but Kurt knew exactly what it meant. He'd heard Emma lock the door behind him when they first entered. He had little doubt he could overpower this woman, so obviously unpracticed in hand-to-hand combat, and he suspected she had little doubt too. But the fact that she was still willing to threaten him to his face... He knew what he had to do: demonstrate that he was no enemy, not the way she was fearing.

"I won't," he said simply, sitting in a chair with a casual air.

Dr. Pillsbury's eyes narrowed, staring at Kurt with a look that felt like it was piercing his skin; he shifted uncomfortably. "Then you know him already."

_How the hell does she do that?_ Little wonder, though, being so close to the master of the trick himself. Now that the immediate danger was passing (Batman was calming by the second), Kurt had the luxury of kicking himself for not seeing it all sooner. He tried to tell himself it was a sign of how good David was, not how badly Kurt may or may not have been slipping. But still, he should've at least _suspected_...

"I met him the night his parents died," Pillsbury said. Kurt wasn't sure why she was telling this story, and he suspected she wasn't either. Perhaps she was trying to persuade him somehow, make sure he'd keep his mouth shut? "I was just a kid myself, helping my dad out at his practice... this practice. This neighborhood was different back then. It was vibrant, alive... Filled with people and businesses and..." She shook her head. "I know you probably wouldn't believe it, looking at it now, but I really think that night changed this area, maybe all of Gotham. Not just David." She heaved a sigh and continued. "They were shot in that alley just outside this building." She cocked her head towards the wall; Kurt turned towards it, forgetting there was no window there. "I heard them, in fact. I thought it was a car backfiring. But then Dad told me to get his kit, and...

"He was just kneeling there, in front of their bodies. I think he was trying to wake them up." The woman's voice was distant, as if it too were in the past. "While Dad stayed with them, I took him back here. I did my best, I really did... I even visited him at the mansion over the next month... I think... I think I saw even then what he was going to do... Even if I couldn't have even imagined _how_ he'd do it..." She seemed to snap back to reality; she started addressing Kurt directly again, instead of speaking to the room. "He's the reason why I went to medical school, why I stayed here after Dad retired. I'm doing what I can to make Gotham a good place to live again, just like David is."

Dr. Pillsbury regarded Kurt coolly, her eyes scanning his outfit from crown to boot tip; he couldn't help but press his back against the chair. "I don't know what your deal is," she said, "but I hope you'll understand when I say I can't take you at your word about not wanting to hurt him. So I warn you: David may act like - want to be - a brooding loner, but he has friends. Powerful friends. Friends... like him." Her lips tightened into a straight line. "I'd think over how to deal with your new knowledge _very _carefully."

Kurt swallowed. He knew the kind of people Batman (David... God, it was still hard to make that mental connection) was associated with, and he had _no_ desire to rile up people with incredible power rings, magical abilities, and world-moving strength. "Neither you nor... David needs to worry."

She stared at him for a long moment; Kurt felt like he was going to melt under her gaze. Finally, her look shifted to one of wonder and disbelief. "I believe you," she said softly. Kurt relaxed a little. "I don't understand you," she continued bluntly, "and I still don't entirely trust you. But you're starting to convince me you actually care about David."

"I do," Kurt replied before he could stop himself.

Pillsbury opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a series of knocks on the door - oddly rhythmic in a way that had to be deliberate. The sequence was ended by a sharp, quick chime on the doorbell. The doctor immediately went to the door and threw it open without even looking in the peephole. William, David's butler, strode in at once, doing a good job at keeping a calm face and demeanor (though not quite good enough to see his brow crinkled in worry). _Huh_, Kurt thought. Either he'd lost track of time, or William had broken several land speed records to make it here this fast.

"Emma," he said. Here Kurt straightened in his chair. It was just one word, but it carried a warmth and history that could have filled pages, especially when compared to the many other words he remembered the butler saying at the mansion. _Interesting_.

"William," she replied, the emotion even more clear in her voice. "He's in the examination room." It was then that he caught Kurt's eye; he immediately paled. "It's okay, William. She already knows."

The butler frowned, and began to speak. He stopped as soon as he saw his employer lying on the examination table. Batman appeared to be sound asleep, his breathing steady and untroubled. William strode over and, with surprising lack of effort, hefted his master to his feet. Batman seemed to awaken slightly then, shuffling his feet just enough to assist in his own movement. Kurt jumped up and took the other shoulder, helping a startled William carry Batman to the front door. Emma strode ahead and pulled it open for them, watching in silence as the three made their steady way out of her office. "Scarecrow," she muttered in William's ear as they passed. "Probably a new formulation. Took the appropriate measures. Let me know if you need anything."

Kurt heard her shut and lock the door behind them as they emerged back onto the front stoop. The stairs down were almost more difficult to maneuver than the stairs up, with the care they had to take to keep the heavy man from slipping out of their grasp. Finally, they loaded him into the back seat of the car, a nondescript sedan that Kurt had never seen before. _Of course. David would never want to be picked up in a fancy car that could be traced to him._

William only turned his attention back to Kurt once the door was shut on his charge. He coughed, his face turning serious. Kurt had long experience reading people, and on the butler's face there was a shade of... what? Darkness? Danger? It certainly confirmed what Pillsbury had said earlier: David had friends, friends who would protect him under any circumstance. "I, er... I trust Emma... Dr. Pillsbury... spoke to you about..."

Kurt knew what he had to do then. It was by no means necessary, or even smart, but his conviction on this reached deep into a place he'd thought closed off forever. He simply slipped his goggles and skullcap off his head.

The butler gaped. "M-Mr. Hummel...?"

"Don't worry, William," he said in his natural voice, the electronic device at his throat turned off. "Tell David he doesn't have to worry. His secret is safe with me. And you can tell him mine if you want. Let him know... I'll understand if he never wants to see me again. I may not even stay in Gotham very much longer now. I just... I wish..."

He couldn't finish. It was too much. He put his goggles and skullcap back on and almost sprinted away, flipping himself onto a nearby fire escape and launching his body up the ladder with reckless speed. Anything to get away from David, from his butler's stare, from everything running in his head.

He ran, seeking forgetfulness in the freedom of the night.


	9. Harlequinade

**AN: Y'know, I realize it's my own damn fault: I've been doing writing in the doc manager because it's convenient. But dammit, what a time for my login to expire just as I hit "save" for a huge chunk of text. And just when I solved the scroll problem too. :P Oh, well, I wasn't entirely satisfied with what I wrote anyway; maybe I can do it better the second time around. :/  
**

"You're different." The young blonde wearing the white facepaint, domino mask, and black-and-red spandex outfit cocked her head and stared at Batman in something that resembled thoughtfulness. "You're not like before. You're not as confident."

The air in the abandoned warehouse seemed to turn cold. Batman couldn't help but swallow. She was right, goddamn her. It was easy to forget when listening to her prattle or fighting the insane schemes of her precious "Mister J," but Harley Quinn was a trained observer of human nature. Born with the rather improbable name of Brittany Harleen Pierce-Quinzel, she found success as a cheerleader, gymnast, and psychology student. Though somewhat bubble-headed and book-dumb, her insight into the nature of the mind was almost savant-level, enough to earn her doctorate and her ticket to work at Arkham Asylum. There she met her ultimate challenge: the Joker. Determined to make her name by curing him (or at least understand his psychosis well enough to write a bestseller about it), she dove straight into the arms of her doom. The Joker, for all his insanity, was a student of the human soul himself; he saw a kindred spirit in her, and exploited it for all it was worth. Twisting her mind, he reshaped her into his disciple, his sidekick, his desperately in love hanger-on. _What a waste_.

"Where is he?" Batman asked flatly.

"Something happened, didn't it?" She paused for a moment in consideration. "You were hurt. And not just by the Scarecrow either, the big dummy."

Batman bit back a sarcastic remark, unsure whether her pun was intentional or not. "The Joker, Harley."

"He's busy," Harley replied casually. "I asked him to get some more nicotine patches for Lord Tubbington." She frowned down at the hyena sitting casually at her side. "No more Skype for you until you stop stinking up everything with smoke!" she cried, wagging her finger. Lord Tubbington yawned.

"I don't have time for this." He stepped forward menacingly, a simple act that would've sent most men (and women, for that matter) cowering; Harley merely blinked. "If you tell me where the Joker is, maybe I can do your friend Poison Ivy a favor..."

Harley frowned. "You put Santana into Arkham again. That wasn't very nice."

"She's not very nice."

"Nope!" Harley said brightly. "That's why we like each other. I just wish she and Mister J got along better..."

"Why don't you take me to see him? I can convince him to give her a little respect." The words sounded absurd even to him, but why not? One could never tell Harley Quinn's moods; perhaps this was one of her flightier moments.

It wasn't; she glared at him in something stronger than annoyance, but not as intense as hate. "That was really weak, Batman. What kind of girl do you think I am?" With that, she whipped out a squirt gun and fired.

Batman dodged the stream as if it were a bullet. Odds were that the squirt gun was filled with the Joker's tried and true venom; even skin contact could be enough to send him into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter, leaving him to die with a rictus grin on his face.

"Sic 'im, Lord Tubbington!" With a snarl, the hyena leaped. A step and a quick jab to the nose from Batman sent Lord Tubbington flying with a pitiful yelp. "Baby!" Harley cried out in horror. She shot Batman a vicious, hateful look. "That does it! You beat up my baby, lock up my friends, harass my puddin'..." She fired the squirt gun again and again, producing an unbroken stream of Joker venom that stained the concrete floor. Batman circled her carefully; despite her apparent lack of brains, despite her obsession and rage, she was definitely not someone to be underestimated. Anyone who could be the way she was and be so close to the Joker (and live more than fifteen minutes) was not someone to be taken lightly.

Batman dove for the comforting shadows. Crouching down into the darkness, he inched carefully away from his entrance point. Sweat was starting to run down his cheek. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ Ever since he recovered from the Scarecrow's gas, he... No. He couldn't blame that, and he couldn't play dumb with himself either. He knew damn well what was distracting him.

"Yoo hoo! Batman!" Harley's voice called out in subtle echos; he could see her in the center of the room, squinting into the dark. "I thought you wanted to know where Mister J is! You know I'm not going to just lead you to him, no matter how well you follow me. So if you want to find him, you'd better talk to me!" Her voice turned into a girlish singsong in the last few words, not that Batman was fooled. He'd seen too many corpses, too much mayhem, to believe in her innocence anymore. Besides, with her legitimate psychology work stripped from her, he knew that this was her new method of personal manipulation, specifically designed by a keen mind to break down defenses, to lower guards.

Batman had had quite enough of lowering his guard.

"Or maybe I can help out!" she continued brightly. "You obviously need someone to talk to. If I had to guess..." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I'd say that you met someone. Someone who broke through that nice little mask you put up for yourself."

He didn't answer. What could he say?

Harley squealed, jumping and clapping her hands in glee. "I'm right, aren't I? You did! Batman is in lo-ve! Oh, that is _so_ cute!" Her voice turned stern, professional; this is what she must've sounded like as a young, up-and-coming psychologist. "I knew because I believe in the power of love to shape and change the mind. After all, look at me!" Her voice turned girlish again. "Look at what knowing Mister J has made me! Free!" She whirled around. "You shouldn't be afraid of being free, Batman. Don't think I haven't wondered what makes you tick. Must be something pretty awful for you to be the way you are." She shook her head in something resembling sympathy.

This was getting to him. There was no way to deny that. The fact alone was disturbing; he thought (or at least he liked to think) he was immune to Harley's little mind games. But something about now, something about her, something about her words... He could _feel_ them burrowing in. He willed his muscles to move, his throat to shut her up, tried to do _something_. Nothing happened.

"You're so _serious_," Harley continued. "Why? Mister J wonders, and I wonder too. You don't seem happy about this new development. That's just as puzzling." She began pacing, as if discussing options with a patient. Somewhere in the background, Lord Tubbington was stirring, shaking his head as he rose. "Mister J sometimes says that you probably have another cowl underneath the one you have now. But I know that's not true. You're someone else too, someone different. Are you afraid? Afraid that you won't be Batman anymore? Because that's silly. Or maybe..." Harley brightened, slamming a fist into her other hand. "That's it! You don't think this other person will love you back if she finds out you're Batman! Or maybe she already knows...

"But that's not all, is it? I get the feeling it's a lot more complicated than that. In my professional opinion, you need to open up lines of communication if you at all value this relationship. Because believe me, I could tell. Not everyone has my training, of course, but I could definitely tell."

_She has a point_. Again, that chill up his spine. The fact that he could even think that in the first place was a sign of how far this was going, how far it had already gone. He couldn't be weak. Batman could not be weak. And if Harley Quinn could tell he was off his game... Well, there was no limit to the people who'd want to take advantage, nor to the ways they could do it. If nothing else, he needed to figure things out for himself; leaving things in a precarious limbo was not doing anything for his sleep or his general peace of mind. Even if it was difficult, hadn't he faced worse challenges?

But this was worse than having his life in danger. He would actually have to _live_ with whatever happened.

It was only at that moment that he looked about and realized that Harley Quinn had disappeared. While he was lost in his thoughts, she and Lord Tubbington had quietly slipped out without him even noticing. Swearing under his breath, he stood, his fists clenched, jaw set in determination. Yes, he'd definitely have to face this head on, no matter what happened. For his sake. And for Kurt's...

* * *

The knock was quiet, almost hesitant, but Kurt's trained ears picked it up easily. As his hand brushed against the doorknob, instinct (that finely honed sense that told him when the security guard was starting to stir, or whether that window was alarmed) told him who was on the other side, no matter how much of a surprise it was to his conscious mind. He opened the door, and found that once again, instinct had not betrayed him. David Karofsky's face was a mix of discomfort, sadness, and... shame, perhaps? It was hard to tell; the situation was as complex as their lives, and no matter what happened, it would take some minor miracles to straighten it all out.

"Come in," Kurt said quietly. He watched David enter, and shut the door behind him. The two men sat on opposite ends of a curved sofa. Looking at David now, it was hard to tell that this was the famed Batman; he was leaning forward, forearms on his knees, hands worrying at each other. One could've assumed that this was part of his act (and Kurt now knew that much, if not all, of David Karofsky's public persona _had_ to be an act), but instinct (there it went again) told him it wasn't, not now. Knowing that David felt something akin to what Kurt was feeling at that moment was oddly comforting.

They were silent for long moments - natural, considering that this was the first time they'd laid eyes on each other, never mind communicated, since that night at Emma Pillsbury's office. Kurt decided to be the first to speak. "So he told you."

David looked up, his eyes bright with emotion. Once more, if Kurt hadn't known for a fact that this was Batman sitting in front of him, he never would've believed it. "Yes. But I already knew. I figured it out."

"Oh, right, World's Greatest Detective." Kurt tried to smile, but it felt false on his face. David's eyes fell to the floor again. "I..." _What was I about to do? _Kurt thought. _What the hell could I say? "__I'm sorry for looking at your face and finding out you're Batman?" God, this whole thing is absurd..._

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" David's voice was hoarse, quiet.

"Go ahead."

"You've told me a lot about yourself, about your life. But not about a big part of it. I'd... like to know about it."

Kurt nodded. It was only fair; David's life, his past, was practically an open book to the world. "I didn't plan on becoming Catwoman, I can tell you that. I'd always dreamed of making it on Broadway. But New York isn't exactly what you'd call egalitarian. If you're weak, it chews you up and spits you out like a wad of gum. Come to think of it, show biz is exactly the same way. Put them together..." He shook his head. "I learned pretty quickly. But I was a naive kid, then. It was hard for me to handle.

"I'd been a waiter for a few years, a side job to make ends meet. And I told myself that every actor and singer had their stint in a restaurant at some point. I was pretty damn good, too; pretty soon I was working some of the swankiest places in the city - the kind only people like you have even heard of, the kind that would be on 'best kept secrets' lists if they actually _wanted_ the riff-raff. Everyone who walked in the door had more money than God, but oddly enough, most of them thought they _were_ God. Either that or they thought _I_ was God, able to break the rules of physics to get their meal faster or able to conjure ingredients we were short of out of thin air."

"On behalf of all the 1%, I apologize."

Kurt chuckled. "Thank you." The conversation was getting easier now; it seemed that they were both trying as hard as they could to delay the inevitable broaching of _that_ topic. "Anyway, after working there for a few months, I began to realize just how loose-tongued the clientele was. As I said, this place was out of the way, not well known, so it was like a safe haven to them. They were free to speak uncensored about anything that they wanted to, from stupid shit to when they were planning to go on vacation. And since to them, the 'help' are a group of servile automatons to be ignored at best, I was able to hear it all.

"I've always been a limber man." David's mouth quirked in a small grin; Kurt blushed, and continued on hurriedly. "I was a cheerleader for a while in high school, and I'd done some gymnastics in college as a way to keep in shape for my big stage career. Plus, I was in danger of being evicted and the wealthy are about the lousiest tippers on the planet, so I thought... why not?"

"That can't be all," David said softly. "No one wakes up one day and decides to be a professional thief."

"True. I guess... I felt like the world owed me. It took away my parents before I was 25. It kept me from my lifelong dreams. It treated me like dirt for the way _it_ made me. I guess there came a point where I realized I had to make my own luck. And the first time I got away with it - barely, ahead of the rent-a-cops - it was the hugest rush I'd ever had in my life. More than hearing the applause on stage, more than feeling the spotlight... It was _amazing_." Kurt sighed. "I know that sounds selfish..."

"That's because it is."

Kurt bristled for a moment, but relaxed. "Ah, yes, brutal honesty. I suppose I deserve that; I can't expect to be the only one who practices it. But I would've thought you'd understand..."

"Why? I don't do what I do for the thrill of it."

"But you do understand that life is unfair and arbitrary."

"Maybe more than anyone," David said in a hoarse whisper.

"And we both try to correct it in our own way. Oh, don't look at me like that; I never hurt anyone, and I never will. Everyone I hit is well-heeled, usually insured..."

"What about the security guards who're traumatized, or the employees who get fired for their 'inferior' security?"

Kurt swallowed. "I told you, I don't hurt anyone when I'm on the job. As for fired employees, I'm sorry for them, of course, but the fact that they were fired for something I did just shows that their bosses _are_ sons of bitches."

David stared for a moment. "Interesting."

"What?"

"I've been doing some research on you. You didn't even mention some of the... side activities you've engaged in."

"Like?" Kurt said casually.

"Not that I can prove that it was you, but it struck me as odd, some of the coincidences that popped up. New York City, 2010. Robbery at the home of a real estate mogul conveniently revealed his child porn stash to the police. Broke down an entire ring of wealthy pedophiles and their suppliers. Chicago, 2008. A prominent politician loses both his coin collection and his office when certain papers revealing corruption are leaked to the press. Cleveland, 2005. A businessman well-known for financing anti-gay causes is outed barely a day after his heavily secured home is burglarized and an undisclosed amount of cash and jewelry is taken."

"I'm impressed," Kurt murmured, nostalgic triumph flashing through his body.

"So you consider yourself a kind of Robin Hood?"

"Says the man dressing up as a giant rodent."

"Bats aren't rodents."

"Whatever." The ease of the exchange between them underlined something in Kurt's mind. He picked up the glass of fine scotch he'd poured himself just before David knocked on the door. He _really_ needed that drink. "Anyway, I didn't mention it because it wasn't important. Just because I steal doesn't mean I'm not a human being. Besides, I've known since day one that I'm not the only one life kicks around." He returned David's appraising stare. "The world is _not_ black and white, David. Neither are people. I'd have thought a man with your experiences would understand that by now."

"I can't let it go, Kurt."

"Why not? You still think your parents would be disappointed in you if you did?" David seemed to not react, but Kurt saw the signs: the blink, the tightening of his fingers, the stillness of his form. He knew, on some level, what it meant that he knew those signs so well despite their relatively short acquaintance, but he tried not to think about it. "I'm not the man who killed them, David. We're not all the same."

David rubbed his forehead. "I know. I just... Every crime... It goes against everything I've spent my life fighting..."

"Do you think those people I exposed would've been brought to justice eventually if I hadn't done something?" Kurt asked quietly.

The other man seemed to take the question seriously. He thought for a long moment before: "I... I don't know. But I can't let anything pass..."

"Can't? David, I understand, but..."

"Do you? That night... The night they died... I always carry that with me. Even if I lived to be a hundred - and at this rate I seriously doubt it - I could never even begin to make up for it."

Kurt frowned. "Make up for what? David, you were just a child. What could you have possibly done that wouldn't have ended up with you being dead too?"

"Maybe it would've been better that way." (David blinked; he hadn't meant to say that. God knows he hadn't meant to say that. He didn't even realize he was _thinking_ it.)

Kurt nearly choked. "David... You can't think... You're Batman. You've done so much good..."

"But it's not enough!" he burst out, his eyes shining with moisture. "It's never enough! I used to be able to get some satisfaction from saving lives and seeing justice done, but lately... I... I don't know. I just keep coming up short and people are getting hurt because I wasn't good enough. I'm tired... God, I'm so tired... But there's always so much more to do, and I know I have to do it, but it just... never... ends..." He stared down at his clenched fists, as if yearning to punch something, someone, just to make the brimming tears stop.

Kurt couldn't take it anymore. He scooted down the couch next to David and gently began rubbing his back. The other man stiffened for a moment at the touch, but quickly relaxed underneath the soothing gesture. Kurt couldn't help but take in the scene with wonder: the infamously stoic, grim Batman, so freely letting out thoughts and feelings he obviously didn't share with just anyone. Why to Kurt, to someone he thought of as nothing more than a common criminal? After all, as Emma Pillsbury had warned, both David and Batman had friends...

But then perhaps that _was_ the reason. They didn't have years of history - of baggage - between them, yet Kurt somehow knew for a stone cold certainty that David had seen in him what he himself had seen in David: a sense of being common travelers, in a sense, despite their very different lives and moral outlooks. After all, there were plenty of things he'd never tell a close friend or relative that he'd willingly tell a lover...

Kurt's back went ramrod straight at the very thought of that word. He thought he'd long since trained himself to keep the laser-like focus necessary to pick a lock while hanging upside down, to be careful enough to know himself so utterly that he wouldn't have these inconvenient, distracting thoughts at the worst possible times. But then, he was sure that David thought he'd trained himself to be the calm, rational Batman - perhaps even convinced himself that Batman was all he was or should be. And that right there was another commonality between them. _Ah, irony._

After a few minutes (an hour? A week? A century?), David rose. "I... I have to go..."

Kurt joined him on his feet. "You don't have to."

"I do. This... we're... this is complicated." _No shit,_ Kurt thought rather uncharitably. "I need to think this through..." He turned towards Kurt, stepping forward as if he wanted to... what? Hold him? Kiss him? Who knows? "I'm sorry." Kurt was somehow sure that those words rarely passed David Karofsky's lips, or Batman's for that matter. Yet here they were, directed at _him_. _Funny how I'm so sure about so many things about David, yet not the most important ones. More irony._ He didn't find it particularly funny.

"It's okay. I think we both need to take some time to figure things out."

"I have to be honest: I'm not sure I can change for you, Kurt. Not in the ways you may want me to."

"Same here." Kurt chuckled bitterly. "God, we're two of a kind, aren't we? No wonder we had that spark so early."

"Yeah." David started for the door, only to turn back to Kurt abruptly. "Oh... If I could make one request of you...?"

"Anything." Kurt was surprised, and rather annoyed, at the sincerity in that word.

"Don't do it."

"Do what?"

"Rob Manny Bekker."

"I... Who?" The attempt at innocence in his voice was much more strained than normal - certainly not the smooth lies he was used to issuing.

"Please don't play games with me, Kurt. Manny Bekker, the German gem dealer who's in Gotham with millions in uncut diamonds. You'd be a poor cat burglar if you weren't drooling over it." David's look turned almost pleading. "I know you aren't a bad person deep down. If you could just..."

"Prove that I can be a good little boy?" Kurt asked quietly. "Someone who'll change who he is for a man?"

"Your luck will run out sooner or later."

"I could say the same about you. Why don't you quit?"

"I can't." The real answer, they both knew, was far more complex than that. But Kurt was too exhausted emotionally to push. "What kind of life can you have as a thief?"

Kurt gestured about him, at the luxurious penthouse apartment, with an ironic smile. "This kind?"

"You... God, Kurt... You're a completely unrepentant criminal..."

"Yet that's why you love me." There it was: that word. _Love_. Kurt hated it, hated the way it was used so lightly. So what did that say about his use of it just now, the certainty with which he deliberately chose it?

David's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Just... just think about it? Please?"

Kurt barely noticed him leave, the door click shut behind him. He staggered back to the couch, dropping onto it heavily. Brian mewled in confusion as his owner's face dropped into his hands. There were no tears, though. Not yet.

Maybe they'd come later.

* * *

The Chatsworth Hotel was one of Gotham's most venerable institutions, a home away from home for the nation's elite for over a century and a half. But that history came with a price. As an old building, it was naturally not outfitted with the latest in security. Such would be expensive and harmful to its national landmark status, so the measures taken were reduced in effectiveness.

That's why Kurt thought it would be so easy. Manny Bekker's suite would only take seconds to get in. That would save him time he could use to get into the room safe (word on the street had it that the naive Mr. Bekker didn't trust the staff enough to keep his precious goodies in the hotel safe, and kept them himself instead) and get out without anyone being the wiser. Mr. Bekker would, if he were any sort of dealer, notice the fakes at once, and thus certainly blow Kurt's self-imposed "under the radar" tactics, but David was right; this was a prize too big to ignore.

David, it seemed, was right about a lot of things. That was why Kurt was still standing on the roof of the Chatsworth instead of getting away with the swag.

David - no, Batman - would not be keeping watch. He would be trusting Kurt to make the "right" decision. It was all up to him whether to disappoint the man or not. Kurt knew he wouldn't change - not in such an important way - for David or anyone else. He knew David had to know that on some level, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. There was really no reason why he shouldn't go ahead with his meticulously planned break-in and get the spoils he so richly deserved.

So why wasn't he doing it already?

Kurt thought he knew himself, but these past few weeks had turned his brain, his entire self-image, completely upside down. _God, grow a spine already, Hummel._ The problem was that he didn't exactly know what he wanted to stand up strong and _do_. Once he figured that out, _then_ he could proceed with confidence. But that was the problem, wasn't it?

So there he was, standing on a wind-blown rooftop at two thirty in the morning, in full gear staring off into space trying to decide whether to attach a line and drop down a few stories to get into one of the fancy suites and rob the place. If he weren't so lost in his decision making, he would've found the image silly.

Then again, if he weren't so lost in his decision making, he would've seen the boxing glove on a spring rocket towards him _before_ it pasted him square on the jaw.

Kurt's face exploded in pain. He staggered, the world spinning. He could barely see the slim figure in front of him, all streaks of reds and blacks, could barely make out the comically oversized gun in her hand from which the glove had sprung.

"Oooh, you were right where he said you'd be!" The squeal only made his head pound harder. "Mister J will be so happy to see you!" The figure approached confidently; Kurt tried to will his body to stand, to focus, through the pain, but he only succeeded in straightening a few inches before collapsing back onto the tar papered roof. "Y'know, I always liked kitties. But you look like you'd scratch. Hey, maybe you can play with Lord Tubbington! He'd love to meet you." The figure cocked its head. "Aw, you're hurting! I can help that!" she said brightly.

Her foot whipped out in a high, vicious kick. Kurt was lost in the new agony for just a second before blissful unconsciousness overtook him.


	10. Funny Riddles

**AN: Presenting the climax of this little tale. Just the key battle against one of Batman's greatest enemies to go, and then the epilogue. Not bad for something that started as a blazing hot idea written down on a lark. Hope y'all have enjoyed. (Also, I apologize for any blatant missing punctuation here or in previous chapters; it's showing up in the doc manager, but not live, no matter what I do. Worse, several of the ones here somehow got deleted overnight. I can't figure out why, and it's frustrating. I've fixed 'em as best I could, but PM me with any you find. :P)  
**

Nothing. It was a whole pile of _nothing_.

Batman resisted the urge to kick something, to scream. It wouldn't do Kurt any good.

He knew Oracle was still working on tracing the source of the e-mail that had been sent to Commissioner Fabray, but he was equally sure that by the time she got through the proxies and anonymizers, it'd probably be too late. So there he was, on the roof of the Chatsworth Hotel, trying to find the barest hint of forensic evidence, _something_ that would tell him where Kurt had been taken.

But, again, there was _nothing_.

Batman closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the video, attached to the blank e-mail with the subject line "Batman would be interested." It was taken by a video camera from a nearby roof (that was also bare of any evidence), showing Harley Quinn inching along a ledge running along the top floor of the Chatsworth. She then flipped herself onto the roof, bringing her within feet of a cat-suited figure staring into the night. Harley then raised a huge gun (and that was the point at which David's heart really began to pound) and fired. The boxing glove scored a palpable hit, and Catwoman went down like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Harley casually approached the fallen form, then kicked him in the head. The video ended there.

If it weren't for that video, Batman would never have known that anything had happened - certainly not with _this_ lack of evidence. He knew who must've sent it and why. He knew that there was a trap wherever the Joker and Harley were waiting for him. Ergo, there _had_ to be a way for him to track them. But how?

Quinn hadn't understood his concern, especially since she knew nothing about his discoveries about Catwoman (he also knew that he'd have to tell her eventually, but not now - not yet), but offered her aid nonetheless. "Should I call in Sam? Or Joe?"

"No!" He felt foolish refusing aid when Kurt's life was at stake, but he knew, deep in his gut, that this was something he had to do alone. For one thing, the Joker would certainly kill Kurt in a heartbeat if his "real" target (and Batman had no doubt of who that target was) had backup. For another, just revealing his concern to Quinn was hard enough; doing so with Nightwing too, one of his best and only friends, would make for a fatal emotional distraction at a time he (and Kurt too, God...) couldn't afford it. As for Azrael, well, the alliance between the two was still shaky at best. No, this was something he had to tackle by himself. But he was used to that.

Quinn, for her part, had given him one of _those_ looks even as she promised to keep him updated on her progress. But there was no way Kurt would survive any kind of real wait. He had to find something on this roof. _Something!_

Someone cleared his throat behind him. Batman whirled around, fists at the ready. Before him was the last sight he expected; he groaned inwardly. _God, not now..._

The brown-haired man in the wheelchair wore a green suit punctuated with purple question marks. An emerald derby was perched on his head; he adjusted his glasses casually. Arthur Abrams was always a bright man, driven to prove that his mind hadn't been crippled along with his body in that childhood car accident. That drive, that arrogance and belief in the superiority of his mind, turned him to a life of crime as the Riddler, directing thugs behind the scenes like a dark reflection of Oracle, teasing the police and Batman with riddles keyed to his jobs. Somewhat paradoxically, the more Batman foiled his schemes, the more determined the Riddler was to draw the hero into them. But then, in Abrams' twisted psyche, that made perfect sense; his crimes would have no meaning unless they proved he was the smarter man. Until that happened with Batman, he would stop at nothing.

Even now, as a "reformed" high-priced private detective, he still hadn't stopped trying to one-up Batman; only now he did it legally, which deepened the Dark Knight's annoyance with the man, since now he didn't even have the moral right to punch him and get it over with. And God, did he want to, especially now. "What do you want, Riddler?" he growled.

"Oooh, temper, temper," the other man said smugly as he wheeled himself forward. "Looks like Catwoman really did get to you, didn't she? Though frankly, Harley Quinn's always been more my type..."

"How do you know about this? Did you have _anything_ to do with...?"

Abrams snorted. "Oh, please. Me, fall in with the Joker? I'm not suicidal, Batman. No, I have... contacts in the GCPD. Contacts with whom I'm... very generous." He smiled up at Batman, a smug, supercilious grin that grated on his nerves in the best of times. This was hardly the best of times.

"What?"

"You let someone in." Abrams' statement was casual, as if he were speaking to a peer... or scolding an inferior. "That's very dangerous to men in our profession, you know. I hope this little incident convinces you to take more care in..."

"Are you done?" Batman interrupted, barely resisting the urge to shove his wheelchair over the edge of the roof.

"Oh, my apologies. I was just wondering if you'd found anything to help you in your search."

The smugness was still there, a fact which finally penetrated Batman's worry and fear. Smugness... about what? What could even this arrogant man have to be smug about right now? Unless... "You know something."

Abrams' smile brightened. "Ah, you finally figured it out! Well, yes and no. No, in that I don't know exactly where the Joker or Catwoman are. Yes, in that I think I have information that would... Whoa!" He stopped, startled, as Batman bent down and gripped the arms of his wheelchair, thrusting his face into Abrams'. Batman could feel his jaw clench.

"Tell. Me."

Batman could see a bead of sweat roll down Abrams' face. That alone caused enough satisfaction to calm his temper a little. "Of course, this is probably something you would've come up with anyway, at least partly," he began tremulously. Batman straightened, content to instead loom over Abrams, but that distance was enough to let some of the superiority seep back into Abrams' tone. "But I have certain contacts you don't, and my keen mind was able to piece a few things together that you wouldn't have."

"And?" His nerves were jangling, his patience quickly starting to thin. The Riddler didn't seem to pick this up at the moment, lost as he was in his own self-congratulation.

"Perhaps you'd like to hear a riddle." Before Batman could interrupt, Abrams cleared his throat and spoke:

_I am one who might be key  
To fix what ails internally.  
But if I were to have some tea,  
I'd be a fishie of the sea_.

"What am I?"

There was a moment of silence.

"If I were to answer, would this tell me where to find Catwoman and the Joker?"

"Well, not exactly, but..."

"Then what's the goddamn point?" Batman whirled around and began to walk away; he was wasting time, precious time that Kurt didn't have...

Abrams tsk-tsked. "She really _did_ get to you. No wonder the Joker was so interested. Fine," he said airily, "if you don't like the riddle, then how about this little fact: German jeweler Manny Bekker doesn't exist."

That stopped him; Batman whirled around. "What?"

"He doesn't exist," Abrams repeated. "Never did. That's what I said you would've discovered eventually, and what put me on the right track." He smiled. "Interesting, no?"

Batman's mind spun. If the Riddler was telling the truth (and he didn't doubt he was; as he'd said, this was something easily discoverable), someone set up a honeypot to catch Kurt, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist such a score. The Joker wouldn't have the patience, or frankly the particular kind of smarts, to think of and pull off something so subtle. So who...?

"But that won't find your precious Catwoman either, at least not directly," Abrams continued. "But perhaps _this_ might." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a single playing card: a joker. "I found this inside our phantom Mr. Bekker's suite, propped up on a mirror." Batman snatched the card away with almost blinding speed. "There's something written on it something that I figure has significance only to you." He watched silently for a moment as Batman read the scrawls on the card's face.

FIRST TIME

"If you find this useful, maybe you could put in a good word for me with Commissioner Fabray? He seems reluctant to utilize my resources for some reason..."

By that time, Batman no longer heard the Riddler. He was no longer important. Because he knew exactly where the Joker wanted him to go.

* * *

Kurt rocked back and forth in the chair to which he was bound, but nothing happened; it did not budge an inch in any direction. The ropes around him still held him tight, too tightly to get to any of his tools. The chair was set in the center of some kind of stage; Kurt could see the empty theater in front of him; even with multiple spotlights trained directly on him, his goggles, which were still strapped on his face just as they'd been when he'd been captured, filtered out enough of the light.

_"Midnight... Not a sound from the pavement..."_

The voice was surprisingly good, rich and smooth, although slightly cracked and infused with more than a hint of mockery. A figure hopped onto the stage in front of him from the orchestra pit. He was tall and lanky, wearing a purple suit with a green string tie (completely hideous; Kurt's instincts screamed the ensemble's wrongness from the get-go). But it was his chiseled face that caught most of his attention: chalk white, with garish red lips and green-tinted hair. Kurt couldn't tell if the unusual colors came from dye and make-up, or if skin and hair itself were somehow grotesquely transformed, but he knew that was irrelevant. All that mattered was that it marked just who had him at their mercy.

The Joker. Over the years, only a few of his underworld contacts and operatives _didn't _fear the Joker - those few were quickly dumped for incompetence and/or idiocy. After all, there's not much one can do against insanity, and this was one of the most insane men on Earth. His violence, unpredictability, sadism, and sheer vicious talent for depravity made him a shivery folk tale even in the darkest of haunts. To be his prisoner was to walk a thin razor's edge that many (too many) had been sliced in two by. Kurt shuddered.

"What's new, pussycat?" he sneered. "Oh hoo-whoa hoo-whoa whoa whoa!" The sudden, almost aggressive bursting out of the rest of the song line made Kurt jump, even in his bondage. That one moment encapsulated all that was the Joker: raw chaos in its purest human shape. "You should feel lucky; you got a front row seat to the biggest show of the year! And in the very spot where he and I first did battle! What a epic conclusion! I smell Tony...!"

Kurt spoke then, his voice modulated to the feminine by the device still at his throat. He should've been terrified to even squeak out a single word (and to be honest, there _was_ some fear), but it was the only way he knew to keep his wits about him, to perhaps gain some kind of upper hand against his psychopath warden. "I know what you're hoping to get out of this..."

"Oh, you _flatterer_! If I'd known you were a fan, I would've dressed up for the occasion!" His voice dropped to a _sotto voce_ whisper. "Don't tell Harley, though; girl gets a little jealous."

"But it won't work. Batman doesn't care about me. He knows this is a trap. He'll never give you the satisfaction."

"That's not what I've been told, sweetheart," he sneered, bending down to bring him nose-to-nose with his prisoner. Kurt drew on every ounce of willpower he had to keep steady, to not give in to his repulsion and fear. The Joker's breath was hot and sticky on his face, smelling of old cheese and... matzo? "Funny, though; I didn't think you were his kind of girl. He usually goes for the frigid ninja chicks."

Kurt blinked at this; the Joker didn't know he was a man? But that would mean that he didn't even bother to look under the goggles and skullcap, and if their roles were reversed, that would've been the first thing that Kurt would've... Then the truth hit him: the Joker simply didn't care. All Kurt was was a means to an end: a bait for Batman. He knew (somehow) that they were close, and that was all that mattered.

The Joker had reduced him to a damsel in distress.

That pissed Kurt off beyond all measure.

Despite his peril, despite his helplessness, he couldn't help but explode. It was like shaking a bottle of soda; there was a certain power and inevitability to it. "Listen, you overgrown man-child, you'd better let me the fuck go _right_ now, or you'll be going back to Arkham Asylum finger by finger! I don't know why Batman lets you walk around, but as soon as I get out of this, you'll have both my heels shoved so far up your ass..."

The Joker snapped his head back and let out peal after peal of high-pitched, riotous laughter. He held onto his stomach, his mirth sending actual tears down his white cheeks. Somehow, the sight just drove Kurt to even deeper fury.

"... take those gangly legs of yours and tie them around your..."

"Oh, stop! Stop! You're _killing_ me!"

"... punch your teeth in and feed them to..." At that moment, Kurt's uncontrolled tirade was cut off by a dirty rolled up sock being shoved into his mouth. He gagged at the smell and taste of unwashed feet, which in turn produced even more profanity and threats, although all that actually came out was a series of "mmmfs."

The Joker wiped away the tears. "I love you! You're a _feisty_ one. _Now_ I see what appealed to old Bats. You'd be good for him, girlie, you really would. I try to engage in witty banter with him all the time, but he's just so _silent_ and _serious_ that he makes a lousy straight man. _You're_ doing a great job, though. I really think you should comment more. Don't be shy!"

"Mmmmf!"

"Super." He patted Kurt on the head, a condescending gesture that sent daggers of hate straight through his glare. Heedless of this, the Joker danced wildly about the stage, his voice raising once again in song.

_"I started a joke... Which started the whole world crying..."_

"Mister J!" The sidekick chick, Harlequin or whoever, came skipping in from the wings. "I think he's coming!"

The Joker rubbed his hands in glee. "Ah, finally! Places!" The girl disappeared backstage once more.

Kurt's heart pounded. He was afraid... but not for himself (which surprised him; he knew the risks of his chosen profession, but he never had anything like a death wish). All he could think was, _if I get hurt... if I die... David will never forgive himself... He'll think it's _his _fault and oh God __it'll be harder than ever to get him out... _He found the thought almost absurdly self-congratulatory; already he was thinking of himself as the center of David Karofsky's world? But it came nonetheless.

"I know you're out there!" the Joker shouted at the darkness. "Your girlfriend and I have had _such_ a good time! Just come out so we can talk… or sing about it. This is the theatre, after all!" Only silence met him. "Oh, so shy!" He drew a pistol with a comically long barrel from his pants. "Maybe I should start the warm-up act? Nothing like a little blood and guts to get the audience going!" He pointed the pistol directly at Kurt's head. "The Death of Catwoman! Call 1-900-GET-LIFE to vote her to live! Call 1-900-KILL-HER to vote her to die! Operators are standing by! Standard rates apply!"

"Don't." The voice was warning, but Kurt wondered if the Joker could hear the thread of desperation woven into it.

_No, David... Go... Just leave me... I'm not worth it..._

At the same time, he knew it was futile. Batman - David - appeared from the shadows.

* * *

David's heart jumped like a jackrabbit as he stepped forward. The Joker's face lit up with an expression of macabre delight. David couldn't help but see an image in his mind, one that he'd never seen himself, but that haunted his memory nonetheless: the Joker, dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and straw hat, grinning as he fired his gun...

"Ladies and gentlemen! Our guest of honor!" At his cry, Harley Quinn emerged from the wings, applauding and whistling. "Welcome, Batman! Welcome to the final act of our little drama!"

"Let her go." It was a spectacularly futile thing to say, but David could think of little else. All he could to was stare at Kurt, at that gun pointed at his head...

"Oh, but what fun would that be? You want this to be like _The Sopranos_? Cut off at the most exciting part? I'm not going to stand here and pull an _ALF_!"

"You have me. I'm the one you want. You don't need her anymore."

"_Au contraire_, my completely humorless foe." He handed the gun to Harley, who immediately took up his position pointing it at Kurt's head. "She's going to be the prize."

"She's not a trophy, Joker. Not for you, and certainly not for me." He was so wrapped up in the immediate peril that he didn't even notice the force and sincerity in his words. But others did catch it.

"Close enough! Think I could dip her in gold and make her into an Oscar?" The Joker seemed to muse over this for a moment. "Mmm, pretty. Anyway, she's going to be the center of our little improv game!" He raised his arms in a dramatic gesture. "Welcome to 'Whose Death Is It Anyway,' the show where morals are made up and lives don't matter!" He drank in Harley's wild applause (made awkward by the gun in her hand) and wolf-whistles (ditto) before he continued. "Our first game is 'Sudden Death Match', in which the Joker and Batman duel in fisticuffs for the life of the lovely Catwoman! Last man standing gets her... or gets to put a bullet into her brain!"

"But, Mister J!" Harley said in an overdone, over-rehearsed tone. "Batman is so much bigger and stronger and more barbarian-like than you! How EVER can this be fair?"

"Good question! The answer is this: every time the Batman does anything offensive against me besides just taking it, my assistant, the lovely Harley Quinn, gets to engage in what I call 'girl on girl torture'!"

"That sounds like fun!" Harley continued to use the same overacted voice. "What kind of torture?"

"Why, anything her pretty little head can dream of." The Joker smiled at her with an oily grin that nevertheless put a dreamy, lovestruck look on her face. "Broken fingers, acid, tongue cut out... Whatever she feels like! But start small; there's no drama into just jumping into the big stuff right away. Oh! And the Joker gets to use any instrument he wants!" With that, he swung an absurdly huge hammer (where had he gotten it from?), the head _woosh_-ing through the air. "This is gonna be _fun_!" the Joker shrieked with a mad laugh. "Once I win, I'll break out the cameras and do funny things with your corpse! It'll be the next hit on YouTube! Much bigger than that kid playing the guitar!"

"This is madness," David growled, trying to keep his cool.

"Uh, have we just met? THIS! IS! ME!" Each word was screamed, echoing in the cavernous room. "Now... let the games begin!" The Joker jumped off the stage, swinging the hammer with surprising ease and speed. Batman was barely able to jump back, the force kissing his chest. "Oh, and I forgot: if I lose sight of you in one of those little 'hide in the comforting cloak of the shadows' things, Harley gets to do her little torture thing!" He took another swing with the hammer, which David ducked. "I'm sure you're wondering why I just don't have you stand still so I can beat ya to death. Well, what _fun_ would that be? Besides, the management reserves the right to change the rules without notice!"

David's eyes flickered towards the stage. He could lay out the Joker with one well-placed punch if he was lucky, but he wouldn't have time to make it to Kurt before Harley shot him. He had to think... and it was difficult to do while simultaneously dodging the Joker's assaults.

"Y'know, Bats, it'd be so much easier for everyone if you just laid down and died." The hammer clipped David's left arm, sending prickles of pain shooting through him. "Then I'd let Catwoman go and we'd all go on with our lives. Hey, maybe without you around, I'd go sane! Wouldn't that be something?" He let out a hideous laugh as he swung again.

At that moment, David lashed out, out of sheer instinct; the kick caught the head of the hammer just as it passed, ripping it out of the Joker's grasp. It flipped surprisingly far, end over end, disappearing into a rows of seats behind him. The clatter echoed throughout the grand old building.

"Harley!" the Joker shouted. A nasty "crack" split the air; where it had come from and what caused it, David couldn't see - the Joker was in the way. But the shriek of pain that followed told its own tale.

"K... Catwoman!"

"Ooh, that had to smart!" the Joker cackled. "Strike one, Batman! And now look at me: all defenseless and alone!" His voice oozing fake fear, he simply snapped his fingers. A pair of huge boxing gloves sailed over his head, apparently thrown from the direction of the stage. He snatched them out of the air and pulled them on. "Round two!" David noted the bunching of the Joker's arm muscles as he swung his gloved fists, much more severe than it should've been. Obviously these gloves were not of normal weight; with the Joker's sense of humor, they were probably stuffed with a brick, at the least. _Wonderful_, he thought.

"Poor poor Batman!" Harley said sympathetically from the stage as David jumped back to avoid the Joker's initial swipes. "So helpless, with his lady love trapped! How tragic!"

"Bet you were looking forward to settling down and having kittens, weren't ya?" the Joker sneered as he advanced, taking a jab David only barely dodged. "But that's your own fault! A dream's something that fills up the emptiness inside - the grandest joke of them all!"

David felt the sweat began to soak the insides of his costume. The Joker still looked fresh - practically rosy in his maniacal joy at finally having his hated foe over a barrel. He, on the other hand, was starting to get worn down. He could almost hear Sam in his head. "_Went it alone again, huh? I wish I could say I was surprised, but... Dammit, Dave, I thought we were partners? Or at least friends?_" It was an old song, with many verses by different singers, but somehow, seeing Kurt tied up on that stage, he felt it more acutely than ever before.

The whole situation was just filled with wrongness. Someone like Kurt wasn't meant to be tied down like that. He was too full of life, too beautiful, for that. He had to...

It all hit him at once, then: first was the realization of how he felt about Kurt Hummel, one that had been stewing for a month, but now washing over him at full force. But even that was nearly drowned out by an actual plan - something that could get them both out of the Joker's grasp alive. It was a risk, but just breathing in the Joker's presence was a risk. So far, it was his twisted cat-and-mouse game that kept them both alive. Sooner or later, he'd get weary of it and just spray him (or worse, Kurt) with his toxin.

So it was now or never.

Batman waited until the Joker took his next punch. He dodged, though just barely. While the Joker was still reeling from the momentum, Batman acted. His hand went to his belt, then flashed out. A Batarang whipped out with blinding speed. The Joker couldn't suppress a gasp as it shot with a whir past his head, arcing past just half a foot away.

"Hah! Missed!" the Joker teased. "Nice try, but pretty desperate. And sad! You really are slipping! First you go and fall in love, and now you go and do something so colossally stupid, even that idiot Killer Croc could've told you it was a bad, useless idea! Oh, well! Harley, do your thing!" He stood smugly, waiting for the penalty. There was only silence. "I said, Harley, do your thing!" Still silence. He frowned in annoyance. "Harley, I told you..." He turned. The chair on the stage was empty. The Batarang was still stuck in its side, right where it had cut the ropes that were now coiled around the chair's legs. Harley Quinn was slumped over the back, out cold, the gun lying on the stage under her limp fingers.

The Joker took in all this with a deadpan expression. Finally, he spoke. "Oh."

"Ahem." The Joker turned to see what he half-expected to see: Catwoman, standing behind him, arms crossed and foot tapping. "Her" lips were set in a glare that could be felt, even if it wasn't seen through the goggles. Batman almost, _almost_ cracked a smile.

The Joker had only one response to this, a repetition: "Oh."

Kurt lashed out with a vicious punch. The Joker staggered, leaving him open for a piercing kick directly to the stomach. His breath escaping him, the demon clown flailed wildly, his own boxing gloves keeping him off-balance. Another punch to the jaw, and a crack to the knees, and the Joker was splayed out across the aisle, blood leaking from the corner of his now decidedly not-grinning mouth. He blinked blearily as Catwoman and Batman stood over him. The former grabbed his collar and pulled him just upright.

"Go ahead," Kurt purred.

"No, I insist. This is your moment."

"But you two have..."

"But you're the one he..."

The two stopped with small smiles (for the rest of his life, the Joker would remember that moment: the infamous Batman, actually cracking the tiniest of grins - and _he caused it_. It would always be a small, twisted point of pride). "Together?" Batman asked.

"Together." They both cocked their fists back.

"Mother," the Joker squeaked.

The impact was practically visible, a huge "POW" writ on the air in Technicolor letters against a spiky balloon. The Joker crashed to the floor, unconscious.

Kurt sneered, stepping on his throat. "I can end this, you know. Right now."

"Don't," Batman said firmly.

"How many more people is he going to kill? I can save them all right now..."

"Once you go down that road, there's no turning back."

Kurt sighed, turning to him. "God, Da- Batman, not everyone deserves another chance!" He shook his head. "I can't believe, after all you've seen, that you're still sticking to your codes. You have more hope than anyone with your life has a right to..." He stopped cold as he felt a pair of strong arms wrap around him. He felt himself pulled tightly against David's body, could feel the relief and love (there was no other word for him) coming off the man's skin in waves.

"I'm so glad you're safe," he whispered.

Kurt finally relaxed, returning the embrace. "Yeah. I am too. Glad _you're_ safe too, I mean." After a long moment, the two separated. "You wouldn't have done that if there were anyone else around, would you?"

"No," David admitted.

Kurt cracked a smile. "That's okay. For you, I'd be a dirty little secret." He paused, looking down at the insensible Joker. "Only it's not so much a secret anymore. How the hell did he find out?"

"Someone told him. Probably the same someone who made up Manny Bekker."

"Manny Bekker's made up? Well, it sure wasn't by this clow... man. He's not that subtle."

"Agreed."

"Whoever he is, he's got to be taken down. My philosophy is, someone hurts you, it's downright wrong not to..." Kurt trailed off. So little of Batman's face was visible, but what he could see - the jaws, the eyes - they'd _shifted_ in the past few seconds. And scarily enough (because of all the implications it carried), he knew what this meant. "You know, don't you? Who the Joker's source is? Who set all this up?"

"Yes."

"Can I get a crack at him?"

"Not yet. Let me. We have... a history."

"Who _don't_ you have a history with?"

"True." Batman busied himself binding the Joker's hands and ankles tightly. "Take Harley for me, would you? Then you'd better go. I'm going to call Commissioner Fabray and babysit these two until they come."

"My pleasure." Kurt jumped up on stage and picked up the ropes that had once bound him. "Hey."

Batman looked up. "Yes?"

"Are we good? I mean... I'm grateful for all this and all, but I'm still not sure you can change me. Or that I want to be changed. I still l-love you... even with that cat out of the bag..." He couldn't help but chuckle. "But do you think we...? I mean, do you still... want me?"

David considered that silently. Whatever he said, it would change the course of the rest of his life. He had to think about this, think carefully...

But then, he thought, what was there to think about?

"Yeah. I still want you."

**AN: Due to the Joker's nature and backstory, I won't be directly saying which Glee character "plays" him. I left enough clues to indicate it, though. Just as I left enough clues for you comic book lovers to deduce along with Batman who the villain in the final chapter will be. :) (Said final chapter is coming soon!)  
**


	11. Peace and Quiet

**AN: Whew, finally done. Like I said before, not bad for something that started off as a few unignorable ideas. Many thanks to everyone who stuck by this. I'm going to be starting the sequel to my first 'fic, "A World Apart," very very soon, so keep an eye out - I hope that it turns out as well as its predecessor.**

**'Til then, hope y'all enjoy this!  
**

With a soft click, the balcony door gently slid open. Batman stepped into the darkened hotel room. He knew Abrams had already been inside, but given the course of events, this was the logical place to look. If _he_ left behind anything for Batman to see, it would be here. "Manny Bekker" still had this hotel room for another four days, after all.

His instincts proved correct. A laptop was sitting on the coffee table in front of the TV set. Abrams would almost certainly have taken, or at least mentioned, that if it had been there while he was searching. Batman sat in front of it and lifted the lid. A password screen popped up. Frowning, he was wondering if he'd have to take it to Oracle (he didn't want to risk any traps, physical or virtual, with a wrong password) when he saw the yellow sticky note sitting atop the keys.

HINT: WHO AM I?

This was obviously for him - _he_ didn't want anyone else viewing what was on this laptop. Nodding, he typed four letters into the waiting password prompt.

H-U-S-H

The desktop appeared immediately. The only item was a video labeled "hello". Batman double-clicked on it. A man's face appeared on the screen, a face wrapped in bandages, with his parts of his nose, eyes, and occasional patches of skin peeking out in between. He wore a black top and brown trench coat, with a jade medallion hanging around his neck. If Batman had even the smallest sliver of doubt who was behind his (and Kurt's) recent troubles, it was gone now. But then, he'd known ever since Kurt's remark made him remember something from a classical education he'd once thought impractical and useless: August Immanuel Bekker was a German scholar known for a numbering system he'd created, still used today, to reference the surviving works of the philosopher Aristotle.

The man on the screen had been a childhood friend of his, growing up with his own wealthy parents alongside the Karofsky family. At a young age, he too lost his father, with his mother barely clinging to life thanks to the medical intervention of Dr. Paul Karofsky. She recovered, becoming a smothering influence in her son's life, demanding all his attention and forcing upon him the works of her favored philosopher, Aristotle.

The boy grew up to become a famed surgeon (a word that became "sturgeon" if you added a "T"), and through a series of tragic and near-fatal events, the truth about his old friend was revealed: he had actually engineered the death of his father as a mere child. He grew to hate Paul Karofsky for saving his mother's life, and later finished her off himself (an event that his girlfriend at the time, Sugar Motta, apparently participated in). A few years ago, he'd met the Riddler, and learned the secret of Batman's alter ego (a fact that the Riddler himself ironically lost after an amnesiac coma - Batman made a mental note to follow up on Abrams' possible knowledge of this whole scheme, lest it signal a return of those memories).

Ever since then, his former friend, now calling himself Hush, dedicated himself to destroying David Karofsky, whom he believed had the life he wanted, whose father dashed his plans to gain the family fortune. There were times, times when he was weary and jaded and hurting, when Batman wondered, _if he wants my life so badly, why not just give it to him? He'd deserve it._

It was funny how much less he was thinking that lately, how much less tired he was.

"Hellooooo, Batman!" Hush sneered from the screen. "Or should I say, David." Batman took an instinctive glance around. "Oh, don't worry your pretty little head off, I made sure no one else would be able to see this - at least, if you're not stupid enough to watch it with someone else in the room!" He paused for a moment. "If you're watching this, you're alive, which is a disappointment. I'm hoping that the Joker at _least_ killed your precious Catwoman. I really gotta say, buddy, I didn't think she was your type... to put it mildly. Note to self: if alive, get close to her one of these days... figure out what makes her tick." Batman's fists instinctively tightened.

"But whatever weird relationship you two have, it must be special, if it got you to drop your guard the way it did," Hush continued. "It was actually pretty easy to follow and watch you without either of you noticing. Then it was just a matter of getting in touch with the Joker... Now _that_ was a bit of a challenge. But once I told him that the two of you were close, well, it didn't take him long to get the joke.

"Yeah, yeah, you must know all of this already, if you're watching this. On the off chance that you're actually dead, and this is one of your little family, all I have to say is: he deserved it. And my job is done as far as you're concerned, so if you aren't stupid enough to come after me for revenge, I just may leave you alone.

"But no... I have a feeling you got out of this with your skin intact after all," Hush sighed regretfully. "You've always had a habit of getting more breaks than you deserve. Well, if the Joker actually succeeded in breaking Catwoman's neck... At least now you know a _taste_ of what your daddy took from me.

"Either way, though, I knew from the start of this that I'd have to be the one to kill you. How else can I take back what's rightfully mine? So consider this a warning: you'll never know when the next feint is gonna come. And when it does, the scales will be balanced. Finally.

"So don't think you've seen the last of me. As Aristotle said, 'Evils draw men together.' 'Til next time, Davey boy."

The video ended.

"'Til next time, Sebastian," Batman muttered.

He picked up the laptop, on the off-chance that Oracle would be able to find out something about Hush's plans or whereabouts. He doubted it, though; Sebastian Smythe had always been an intelligent man.

One chapter ends. Another begins.

* * *

"_Don't_ say anything," David warned.

"Who was going to say anything?" Quinn asked innocently. "Not me."

The two were on their standard secure communications link, sharing data and mapping out crime statistics and trends throughout Gotham, when David noticed _that_ look on her face. During her tenure as Batgirl, David had spent enough time training her to know her moods. This was one of her more... mischievous. He'd been expecting it for a while, ever since he explained the full truth of Kurt and Catwoman.

"All I was thinking," Quinn continued, which David most certainly counted as "saying something," "is that he must really trust you if he's letting you blab who he is to your friends." She paused. "He _does_ know you told me, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does. As long as I don't let it spread too much, and as long as one of the friends I tell is _not_ your father..."

"He's still putting a lot on the line for you," Quinn said softly. "Like I said, he must really trust you."

"I suppose," David rumbled. He _still_ wasn't comfortable talking about his personal life, even with his friends. Up until a few weeks ago, that was mostly because he really didn't have much to tell. _And isn't that sad__?_ His mind had the thought, but it was in Kurt's voice. Which reminded him... "I have to go."

Quinn blinked. "But... we're not quite done..."

"I trust you to input the rest of the data."

"Y-you do?" There was a moment of silence. "O-okay... I'll... let you go... do whatever it is... you need to do, then."

David smiled wryly, which further widened her eyes. "It's nothing serious, I promise. I'll talk to you later, Quinn." He turned off their link, and immediately opened another. After a few moments, an image of a young blonde man appeared on the screen.

"Hey!" Sam Evans said cheerfully. "Long time no hear!"

"Sorry, Sam. It's been... an interesting few weeks."

"Oh, yeah? How?" He paused. "Never mind. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. What's up?"

"Are you going to be going anywhere in the next week or so?"

"No, why?"

David sucked in a breath. "I think... I need to come down to Bludhaven for a short while."

"Oh." Sam's face turned grim. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'll just be visiting."

Sam's jaw visibly dropped. "Just... visiting?" He squinted at the screen. "You okay, Dave?"

"I'm fine. Mostly. I... I'm not coming because I need Nightwing. I'm coming because I'd like to visit and talk with... a friend." David raised an eyebrow. "Is that okay with you?"

"O-okay?" Sam quickly regained his composure and smiled. "Of course it's okay! I just... I mean... Never mind! Let me know when you get into town!"

"I will. It'll be sometime this weekend. I'll see you then, Sam." He shut off the connection and heaved himself to his feet. The echo of his footsteps on the stairs rang in his ears as he trudged up them, finally emerging into the hallway. This time of day, William would either be in the kitchen or upstairs.

It turned out he was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for some kind of lunch dish. It was funny - the Schuester family had been the Karofsky family's main servants for three generations now. William started his own training when he was young; one of David's more spotty childhood memories was of watching William, then just a teenager, shadowing Victor Schuester and learning the intricacies of the trade. If he'd known more of the world then, David might have asked why William was locking himself into the family tradition so readily.

But after all these years, of crying into the arms of Victor - and later his son - of watching both of them take care of the house, take care of _him_, he no longer had to ask; he knew the answer.

"William?"

The butler whirled, startled. "Oh! Master David! What do you need?"

"Do you have a moment? To talk?"

William frowned for a moment, but the expression quickly vanished. "Talk? Of course." David sat on a stool next to the island in the middle of the kitchen; William sat on one on the other side. The butler watched as his employer's hands worried at each other, and his concern deepened. "Mas- David...?"

"Do you..." David felt his throat close up; he had to get the words out before he chickened out entirely. "Do you think... Dad and Mom would be proud of me?"

William's face softened, something like anguish flashing across his eyes - fleeting, like a summer breeze. "Oh, Master David... Of course they would."

"But... Mom... She never liked..."

William nodded a little, despite himself. His father Victor had taught him that of all the qualities of a good servant, perhaps one of the most important was _discretion_. But there was a reason for that: servants often heard, and knew, much more than they were supposed to, by the very nature of their jobs. This was one of those things. "She never had a chance to get used to it, to understand it," he said gently. "No matter what she thought of your sexuality, she loved you, more than anything. I think that's one reason she was so upset; she just couldn't reconcile the two. But if she'd had time, I think... no, I _know_... she would have accepted it."

"Dad always wanted me to become a doctor, like him," David continued, feeling himself starting to ramble. He blinked back tears. "God, I can't imagine what he must think of what I'm doing now..."

"Well, I'm sure that he wouldn't like that you're putting your life at risk night after night, not letting yourself breathe, out of guilt over something that wasn't your fault." The servant's words were blunt, typical of his tone whenever speaking of Batman. David sometimes wondered if that too stemmed from familial or paternal concerns - William not wanting to disappoint his late father by losing his employer on his watch. But it was certainly more than that; William had done too much, _been_ too much, to doubt that. "But at the same time," the butler continued, "I'm certain that he'd be very proud of the good you've done, of the lives you've saved, perhaps far more than you ever could have as a doctor. And don't forget Karofsky Enterprises, all the good it has done under your command. Surely you can't think your father wouldn't be bursting with pride over _that_?"

"I..." David rubbed his face with one hand. "I don't know. I just miss them so damn much..."

He felt a hand on his shoulder; he looked up startled. Somehow, in those brief moments, William had gotten up and silently circled the island, now standing behind him and looking at him with such a gentle look. _He could teach Batman a thing or two about stealth,_ he thought wryly.

"I miss them too, Master David. But as my father always said, the best thing we can do is... live. Have the best lives we can, and do our best to pay tribute to those who came before, so their efforts don't go to waste. I have... reservations about how you've chosen to do so..." _And that_, David thought, _is an understatement._ "But I have no doubt whatsoever that your parents would be proud of you."

David swallowed; it was a good few minutes before he was able to rise. "Thanks."

"Of course." There was a momentary pause. Then William wrapped David in a tight, almost familial hug. David froze, startled for a moment, then slowly raised his arms to return it. He remembered - a flash of a mental image - a little boy crying, a red-headed teenager kneeling on front of him and hugging him, muttering "it's going to be okay..."

After a while, William separated from his employer. "Will there be anything else?" he asked smoothly and formally.

David couldn't help but smile. "No, that'll be all."

"Very good, sir. Lunch will be ready at noon promptly." He glided back to the counter and continued chopping vegetables as if he'd never been interrupted.

David nodded to himself and left. He had a nap to take - he had a long night ahead.

* * *

They found each other on the roof of Karofsky Enterprises's main headquarters. This was no coincidence, of course, and it seemed apt at the time. Batman was there first; he spent a moment gathering himself before he heard the crunch of boots on gravel.

"Did you do it?" Kurt had his voice changer off, so the rich high countertenor voice that met David's ears sent shudders through him.

"Yes."

"Good. Family and friends are good things. Maybe the only good things." He cast a glance Batman's way. "You're lucky, you know. You have people who care about you, even if you don't want them to."

"They'd be safer if..."

"Bullshit. You think _you'd_ be safer. Then you don't have to 'let down' anyone. Well, guess what: they're willing to take the risk. And so am I." Kurt took a breath. "I'm not letting you keep the walls up anymore. I know too much about you now to let you do that to yourself."

Batman nodded. "You're a very... persuasive man."

Catwoman shrugged. "When you were under the Scarecrow's gas... I worried about you. It... you put too much on yourself."

"If I don't do it, no one else will."

"Maybe that was true once, but the world's a different place now. You've already established a foundation that could even save Gotham. You don't need to..."

"I do," David replied bluntly. "I'm sorry you don't understand that... But then, I don't understand your thrill-seeking either."

Kurt shrugged again. "Granted." He licked his lips. "So... about that..."

"I don't approve," Batman said flatly. "If I caught you, I'd have to do something about it, especially if you went over the line."

"I told you, I'm not that kind of man."

"And I believe that. Nevertheless." He paused. "Still... I can't be everywhere at once, no matter how much I want to. There are often things going on that have to take priority over simple breaking and entering..."

Kurt raised his eyebrows. "Really."

"Yes." The voice that issued from Batman wasn't his - it was David Karofsky's, choked, pained... yet it continued. "And if those crimes that aren't as high priority don't leave much evidence, and don't get too big... there's not much I can do, is there?"

"No... No, there isn't."

"Don't let me catch you." His voice was still David's, this time pleading.

Kurt couldn't help but grin saucily. "I'd say you already did."

Batman snorted. "Funny," he said, his Batman voice returning. "Just... be careful."

"I always am." Catwoman stepped forward, closer to Batman, who didn't flinch in the slightest. "You sound better, though."

"Are you taking credit?"

"No. Well, maybe a little." He grinned. "I like to think I helped loosen you up a little."

"'Loosen me up'... Yes, ignoring crime has always been what I needed to do."

Kurt was practically up against David now; he slipped his lithe arms around the other man's waist. David didn't move - shudder, perhaps, but not move. "I'm sorry," he said. "Not for being the way I am, but... that life had to make us this way. Maybe... in another world, this would've been easier."

"I have a feeling that we wouldn't have been 'easy', no matter what the circumstances."

"You're probably right." Kurt sighed, pulling himself tight; Batman's cape caressed his cheek.

"Do you really think we'll get anywhere?" Batman asked quietly. "That we'll overcome... everything about all this that's wrong?"

"If you don't want to at least try, I'll understand..."

"No!" Batman cleared his throat, as if trying to push back the emotion that had infused that single word. "I mean... I do. Want to try. I just..."

"I know it's hard, but that's what makes it worth doing. It's a motto that explains a lot of what I do, I think. Well, that and..."

"'Life's too short not to go for what you want.'" David turned back towards Kurt with a smile. "I do pay attention."

"Good." Kurt sighed and closed his eyes.

"Are you intending to stay like that forever?"

"No. Just a little while more? Please?"

"... Okay."

The cold night wind battered them both. For just a while, they both forgot: about their lives, their tragedies, the differences between them that made this whole relationship absolutely insane... They forgot. They were just two men who, somehow, fell in love.

Finally, reluctantly, Catwoman released his grip and stepped back. His fingers brushed his throat, and his voice once again became modulated to a female pitch. "I need to go."

"It's late. What are you going to do?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Do you really want to know?"

Silence. "No."

"Thought not." He turned to go, but stopped. "David..."

"Yes, Kurt?"

"..." There were so many things he could say at this moment, so many things he _wanted_ to say. Finally, he settled on: "This weekend... I feel like salmon."

Batman looked back at him, his lips pressed in something that almost resembled amusement. "I think I can swing that."

"Great. Until then, darling." Catwoman took a running leap over the edge of the building and vanished from sight.

Batman stared at the empty space for a moment before turning back towards the city - his city. A signal appeared, stark against the clouded nighttime sky: a circle of light with a dark bat-shape stamped in its center. He nodded to himself. There'd be time for dinners, plans, personal struggles later.

It was time to go back to work.


End file.
